


conjuring up our melancholy

by addandsubtract



Series: on the road again [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Road Trips, Summer of Like, Warped Tour 2005
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-25
Updated: 2009-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan’s standing with Mikey in front of My Chem’s bus, and watching the way the smile pulls at Mikey’s lips when he sees Pete. The way Mikey waves back, long-fingered hand still pale this early in the summer.</p>
<p>Ryan feels a pang he doesn’t want to identify. It’s just easier that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	conjuring up our melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> written for the bandom big bang 2009. sequel to _anything please (except for defeat)_. it would probably be a good idea to read that first, but what you really need to know is that it's an alternate timeline au, in which brian, and my chem, signed panic instead of pete. this fic follows warped tour '05, aka the summer of like. thus, pete wentz.

Ryan knows that Warped is going to be different when he first sees Pete Wentz. Pete’s teeth are too big for his face, for his wide, wide smile, but Ryan already knows that from the magazines and blogs. Smudged eyeliner and flat-ironed bangs. Everything Ryan sometimes still thinks he wants to be.

Ryan’s standing with Mikey in front of My Chem’s bus, and watching the way the smile pulls at Mikey’s lips when he sees Pete. The way Mikey waves back, long-fingered hand still pale this early in the summer.

Ryan feels a pang he doesn’t want to identify. It’s just easier that way.

+

With My Chem headlining Warped Tour, Ryan’s not surprised that Brian asks them if they want to go. It just – makes sense. Brian could swing it, and even playing on one of the side stages would be plenty big enough for them.

“I’m not your boss,” Brian says. “I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.” He runs a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head the way he does when he doesn’t actually want to give them a choice, but knows that he should. That it’s his _job_ to. “That being said, it’s good exposure.”

Brendon looks at Ryan and waggles his eyebrows. Ryan just turns to look at Spencer. Spencer meets his eyes, but they don’t say anything. They don’t have to.

Spencer says, “Yes.”

And that’s that.

+

Brent’s teching for some shitty band in Northern California called Aces or Deuces or something like that, halfway through a West Coast tour, and he’s enjoying the fuck out of it. Ryan knows because he calls them more often than Ryan had thought he would, considering. Ryan’s not sure if Brent will want to know the news, but he texts him anyway. He feels bad for leaving Brent out, even when he’s not technically in anymore.

_shit dude,_ he types, _were fucking playing warped. b happy 4 us._

He stares at it for four minutes before pressing the send button. It takes Brent about two and a half to send a response back.

_fuck, ry, thats awesome!!!!_

Ryan assumes from the number of exclamation points that Brent holds no grudges. He thinks he should know this by now, but somehow he can’t convince himself. He’s not surprised.

Brendon played the bass on the album. Sometimes Ryan still wishes they’d asked Brent if he wanted to.

+

Mikey texts him at 4 AM. Ryan doesn’t get it until after he wakes up at 10 and gets coffee. It’s only once he’s mostly awake that he hears the plaintive beeping of his phone every 45 seconds, and realizes that it means he’s missed a call or text. He takes a sip of his coffee and flips his phone open.

_yr in, right?_

That’s all it says. Ryan’s gotten texts from Mikey almost every day since their last tour ended and Panic went into the studio. Half the time it’s just pictures of random shit Mikey’s seen during the day – funny street signs, graffiti, oddly shaped litter, other people’s pets – and the other half it’s truncated, non-sequitur sentences that Ryan’s pretty sure are designed to be confusing. Ryan’s gotten sort of used to it, but he’s still never sure if he’s answering the way Mikey wants him to.

_4 warped? y._

Ryan leans back against the counter, and flips his phone shut. They’re meeting at the practice space at noon to start figuring out a set list. Brendon, Ryan knows, is already sure what he wants, but with only half an hour every day, they have to be careful. 

Not that they’ve played for longer, really, they just. Have more to choose from.

_good._ Mikey texts in response, seven minutes later. _dont want to forget yr face. >:(_

Ryan closes his phone without answering, an audible snap in the empty kitchen. He listens to himself breathe and tries not to wonder if Mikey means it.

+

The practice space is familiar, nostalgic. Ryan’s still not sure he wants to be there.

“What is it, Ross?” Spencer asks, seated behind his drum set, and Ryan doesn’t have to look over to know he’s rolling his eyes. Or, if he isn’t, that he wants to.

“Nothing,” Ryan says, because. It’s not really anything.

“What, Ryan,” Brendon says, sitting on a padded stool with his bass. He idly plucks at the strings, fingers pressing chords onto the frets, but it’s not hooked up to an amp, so the sound is almost inaudible. “Like you think you can get out of this conversation? We know that face.”

“I, in fact, have lots of experience with that face,” Spencer adds.

“I just – don’t want to be here, okay? I’m happy we’re leaving soon.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, self-conscious. “It’s weird. Backward.”

“Tour starts in three weeks,” Spencer says, tapping his drumsticks against his knee. “Think you’ll be okay for that long?”

“Shut the fuck up, Spence, I’m fine,” Ryan says, and doesn’t think about his house. His father who is only there half the time, grunting at him when they cross paths in the kitchen. Ryan doesn’t think he’s even told his father that they’re leaving again.

“Whatever, Ross,” Spencer says. “Then get out your fucking guitar. We’ve got practicing to do.”

+

Ryan spends as little time in his house as he possibly can. Spencer’s parents are used to him hanging around, which sometimes makes him feel included and sometimes makes him feel like he’s intruding. Spencer always rolls his eyes when Ryan says anything about it, so he doesn’t bother, anymore.

He spends a lot of time driving, too. Sitting on the hood of his car with a notebook on his lap. Sometimes Brendon or Spencer comes with him, and sometimes he’s alone.

He hates how this feels like home, and at the same time, utterly stifling.

_how many wks til warped, again?_ he texts Mikey at 12:52 AM, sitting with his ass on the cold metal hood of his car, feet propped up on the front bumper.

_too many,_ Mikey replies at 12:53, though it’s three hours later there. Ryan wonders why Mikey’s even awake.

Ryan sighs and stuffs his phone into his pocket. He’s got too much time.

+

Gerard calls him three days before they leave, and it’s a little unexpected. Ryan hates talking on the phone unless forced, but Gerard mostly sucks at texting, so Ryan usually ends up waiting for him to call. It means they don’t talk as often as Ryan maybe wishes they did. He thinks he’s a little pathetic for caring, but, well. It’s Gerard. It’s hard not to care.

“Ryan?” Gerard asks, even though he’s the one who called. 

“Hey, Gerard. What’s up?” Ryan’s on the couch in Spencer’s living room, waiting for Spence to get out of the shower. They have to get to the practice space, and Spencer’s mom needs the car. Ryan doesn’t mind carpooling.

“Haven’t talked to you in a while,” Gerard says, and Ryan wonders if he’s drawing, now, with the phone pressed to his ear. His voice has that faraway sound to it, like he’s not paying complete attention to anything.

“I’m seeing you in three days,” Ryan says, and Gerard laughs.

“Oh, right. Yeah. True.” Gerard pauses, and Ryan waits. He figures that if Gerard called, it was probably for a reason, but Ryan doesn’t know what to say. If he should keep the conversation going or not. It’s not exactly his strongest suit. “When does the album drop? For real, I mean?”

“Oh, uh. Next month,” Ryan says. They’d wanted to release it as soon as they were done, but, well. Ryan’s not going to pretend that he understands the finer points of marketing. So they’re touring on Warped when the album comes out. Until then, it’s word of mouth keeping them going. “Why?”

“Remind me when it does?” Gerard asks, and Ryan smiles. He’s glad that Gerard can’t see it.

“Yeah, sure. You know you can just get Brian to get you a copy, right?” Ryan’s planning on escaping from Warped on the 11th, the day it drops, and buying his own copy from a Wal-Mart, or something. So he can say he actually bought his own album.

“I know,” Gerard says. “Still.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Okay.” He’s pretty sure he’s never going to completely understand Gerard. He doesn’t actually mind.

+

Piling back in the van feels almost like coming home, in some ridiculous, soppy way. Ryan’s never really felt completely at home anywhere, but the van probably comes closest. He just can’t keep Brent’s ghost out of his mind – how he’d put his feet up on the dash and talked about his mother’s macaroni and cheese like it was sacred, how he’d slept in the back row, shoes discarded onto the floor. Ryan’s used to Brent not being in the band, but he still doesn’t have a hold on the fact that Brent’s not _here_.

Spencer’s driving, first, and now that there are only three of them, Brendon and Ryan can have their own row each, almost long enough to lie down in. It’s like having a bed, sort of, though an uncomfortable one.

“How long is the drive?” Brendon asks, knees propped up on the back of the row in front of him.

“Like, 30 hours. A long time. Why do you think we’re leaving a day early?” Spencer doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder, just keeps his eyes on the road. Ryan’s sitting in the passenger seat, and twists a little in his seat so that he can see Brendon’s face.

“Figured you guys were just anal,” Brendon shrugs. Ryan can’t help snorting, and Brendon’s expression turns a little sheepish. “What? You know I’m right. I’m in a band with two of the most compulsive people I’ve ever met.”

Ryan just shrugs. He’s not exactly going to deny it, but driving from Vegas to Columbus, Ohio couldn’t possibly take less than a day, all told. No matter how fast Spencer drives. They’re still in a huge, dirty van. He turns back around, facing the front so that he can more easily look out the window. They haven’t been back in Vegas for that long, but he can’t say that he’s sorry to be leaving already.

+

Spencer drives for about eight hours before he pulls over at the next rest stop and parks. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, and throws them to Ryan, sliding out of the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to piss, get some snacks, and take a walk. You up for driving next?” Ryan glances at the keys in his hands, and shrugs, nodding. Spencer doesn’t actually need him to say anything.

It’s closing in on 5:00 PM, and Ryan’s glad that it’s June. The sun won’t be going down for a while, yet. Brendon’s already trotted into the 7-11, following Spencer’s lead. He’s probably going to come back with four Slim Jims and a box of chocolate-covered donuts, if Ryan knows Brendon’s eating habits on the road.

Ryan walks over to the edge of the parking lot, and leans back against the payphone booth. It’s missing the phone receiver, and seems like it’s been that way for a while – it’s covered in dirt and notes in black sharpie. Most people have cell phones, nowadays, so Ryan can understand why it just stagnates, but it’s still sort of. Sad.

He takes a picture of the outside corner with his cell phone camera, a note scrawled in messy handwriting, saying nothing but _being here just reminds me of how far away I am from where I want to be_. He sends it to Mikey, with text at the bottom that says _22 hrs 2 go._

He didn’t write the note, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the sentiment.

+

Because the tour hasn’t started yet, they decide to spring for a motel room. They stop at 2 AM just outside of Lawrence, Kansas, and Ryan takes the time to crack every joint he can manage – fingers, toes, and spine. His hip pops hollowly when he slides out of the driver’s seat, and Brendon winces mid-yawn.

“Gross, Ross. I know you’re a bony fuck, but do you have to remind us so viscerally?”

Spencer just snorts, and heads into the lobby to see about a room. They probably won’t have real beds again until their next day off, which is after the second show. It’s not that long to wait, really, but the longer they’re on tour, the more it’ll matter. Sleeping in the van is fine, when necessary, but it also tends to be uncomfortable. Seatbelts just aren’t meant to be slept on.

Ryan yawns, catching it from Brendon, and leans back against the side of the van. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking for texts – he hadn’t checked at all while he was driving. He knows that he doesn’t have the concentration to do both at once.

He has five texts waiting for him in his inbox. Two are from Mikey, two are from Brent, and one is from Brendon, oddly enough. Mikey sent him a picture of a hot dog stand, and the essential question of _dude, why is relish extra? that shit is awesome but not worth it_. 

Brent’s first text says, _at least the heat in our van worked_ , followed quickly by, _whatev, this is ca, who needs it_.

Brendon’s just says, _so bored r we there yet_.

“You texted me while I was driving?” It doesn’t sound quite as incredulous as he thinks it should. He’s just not as surprised by Brendon these days, he supposes.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and shrugs. He’s kicking at bits of gravel with the toes of his converse, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. “I got bored, what can I say?”

“Don’t you have anyone else you could be texting?”

Brendon just shrugs. Maybe Ryan shouldn’t have said that. There’s Brent, sure, and maybe one or two of his siblings, but Brendon was never really a social butterfly. Someday, Ryan’s going to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Guys!” Spencer’s standing in the doorway to the lobby, holding the glass door open with one hand. “Gonna get in here anytime soon? I got us a room.” Spencer’s hair is still mussed from where he was sleeping, slumped in the passenger seat with his cheek pressed to the window.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Ryan says, “be right in.”

+

Ryan and Spencer share one bed, that night, leaving the other for Brendon. They’ve shared beds on tour before, on family vacations in a variety of locations. It’s nothing new or interesting.

They fight over the bathroom, Brendon shoving Spencer away from the sink so he can spit out toothpaste and saliva, Ryan sitting on the closed toilet, waiting for a chance to wash his face. He’s really going to want a shower in the morning. Warped isn’t known for its cleanliness, and Ryan wants one last day of clean hair and skin before he resigns himself to tour life.

Later, curled up on the bed next to Spencer, he listens to the sound of Spencer’s small snores, Brendon’s snuffling breaths.

He finds it easier to fall asleep than it has been in a long time.

+

Brian’s in Columbus with My Chem well before they arrive. Ryan gets a call from him at around two. They still have several hours of driving to do, but the show doesn’t actually start until the next day. They are supposed to get to the venue before sundown, though.

“Where are you guys?” Brian sounds like he’s smoking. Ryan’s not at all surprised.

“I have no idea.” Brendon’s driving, and Spencer’s bent over the radio, trying to find decent music. They’re going to have to pick up a tape adapter. Ryan’s not sure how long they’ll last without access to their iPods while they drive. “We’ll be there in like, four hours, I think.”

“Fine,” Brian says. “We’re already here. Think about half the tour’s shown up already.”

Ryan looks out the window, tapping his foot against the floor. “Yeah, well, half the tour lives much closer to Columbus than we do.”

“You probably could’ve flown, you know. Rented a van here.” Brian’s voice fades as he pulls the phone away from his face, presumably to take a drag from his cigarette.

“It’s more annoying to drive,” Ryan says, “but also more cost efficient. You think Spence was going to let us waste money?” Spencer glances over his shoulder, hand still on the seek/search button, and raises an eyebrow. Spencer didn’t really care either way, in actuality. It was mostly Ryan’s idea that they drive the whole way. Spencer had just shrugged the way he does to most of Ryan’s suggestions.

Brendon was sort of enamored with the idea of a road trip, just the three of them. Ryan hadn’t wanted to bring up that that was essentially what this entire summer was going to be.

“Sure, whatever,” Brian says. He sounds vaguely amused. “Hold on.”

Ryan waits while the phone crackles, low conversation that he can’t make out, and then a familiar voice on the line.

“Hey,” Mikey says, voice as inscrutable as ever. Ryan leans back against the window, and pulls his feet up onto the seat, tucking his knees up against his chest.

“Hey.” He’s not sure what to say, exactly. This is why he sticks to texts. They don’t have to be instantaneous the way phone conversations really should be. “Are you – you’re there already, right?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “Pulled up half an hour ago.”

“We’ll be there by dinnertime.”

“You should find us when you get here. I know Gerard’s really looking forward to it.”

Ryan can’t help the way he smiles, then. It’s dumb, but – he can’t help it. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you then.”

+

So, Ryan knows that Warped is going to be different when he first sees Pete Wentz. 

Ryan’s leaning back against My Chem’s bus, hands shoved into his pockets, and when Mikey cuts himself off mid-sentence, he looks up from his shoes. Mikey’s smiling, sketching a wave, and Pete’s laughing broadly.

“Well, if it isn’t Pete Wentz,” Mikey says blandly, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s still smiling, Ryan can tell. It’s hard to tell Mikey’s emotions from his voice, but it always sounds like he’s smiling when he is. 

“Hello, Mikey Way,” Pete says, and trots over to the bus. “And who’s this you’ve got with you?”

“Oh, this is Ryan. Ryan Ross. He plays for Panic! At The Disco,” Mikey says, and shrugs. Pete looks over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“That name sounds familiar,” Pete says, “but I don’t remember where I heard it.” He doesn’t say it in a _mean_ way, Ryan knows this logically, but Ryan might also be a little oversensitive. Pete holds out his hand, though, and Ryan shakes it – Pete’s grip is callused and firm. Ryan tries to force himself not to tense up, but he’s not sure he manages it.

Ryan shrugs, and tries to be nonchalant. “Our album hasn’t dropped yet. Not until next month.” 

Pete nods, mostly polite, and turns back to Mikey. Ryan doesn’t know if Pete actually means it as a dismissal or not, but Ryan doesn’t really feel like sticking around much anymore. Brendon’s on My Chem’s bus already, and Ryan hasn’t actually said hi to Gerard or Brian yet.

“I’m gonna go say hi to Gerard, okay, Mikey?” Mikey shoots him a smile and a nod, and Ryan adds. “It was nice to meet you, Pete.”

He’s not sure, yet, if it actually was.

+

Gerard’s drawing on the bus, so it’s Frank who opens the door.

“Hey there, Ross, long time no see,” Frank says, and latches onto him. It’s half a hug and half just moving him onto the bus. Sort of a normal Frank maneuver.

“Hi, Frank,” Ryan says, and lets himself be hugged. Brendon’s laughing at him, loud and raucous, but Ryan doesn’t particularly mind. He still gives Brendon the finger behind Frank’s back.

Frank lets go, after a while, and gives him a nod, the kind that says, _I acknowledge and approve of your presence_ , which Ryan thinks is sort of a funny thing to do after hugging someone. Most nods are meant to be cool and aloof. Frank is neither of these things.

“Hey, Ryan,” Gerard says, and actually looks up from his sketchbook.

“Hi.” Ryan doesn’t really want to interrupt Gerard. Frank and Brendon have already returned to whatever street fighter martial arts game it was they were playing before Ryan got here. Ryan sits gingerly on the edge of the couch and tries not to look over Gerard’s shoulder too noticeably. “What’re you drawing?”

“Character ideas for this comic thing,” Gerard says, as vague as usual. “It’s like. Superheroes. Only not.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. The drawing seems to be some kind of man with a gorilla for a body. It’s pretty cool looking. “What’s his name?”

“Dunno yet,” Gerard says, and shrugs. “Also, Brian’s looking for you. Maybe by your van? I don’t even know where that is, yet.”

“Yeah, and you’ll have to figure it out all over again every day,” Frank says, eyes still glued to the TV.

“Least you guys have central air, or whatever,” Brendon says, leaning far to the right instinctively as he tries to direct his avatar. “I can just imagine how sticky the van’s going to get. All those leather seats.” He shudders dramatically, and Ryan can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Whatever, you’ll live,” Frank says. He’s sitting cross-legged, shoulders hunched. “We did.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon says. “Road warriors, the lot of you.”

Ryan snorts. At least some things haven’t changed.

+

Brian doesn’t actually find them until he returns to My Chem’s bus. Ryan’s still holed up inside. He wants to go find Mikey, but he doesn’t really want to risk running into Pete again. He’d probably just be in the way.

“Oh, you’re here,” Brian says, surprised. Ryan watches to see how close his pointy eyebrows get to his hairline. Pretty close.

“Yeah, just hanging out.” The bus is more comfortable than their van, and Gerard and Frank don’t seem to mind. Ray hasn’t come out of the back lounge yet, and Bob’s somewhere else.

“I figured you were off somewhere with Mikey, actually,” Brian says, and shrugs. Ryan shrugs back.

“Maybe later,” he says. He’d try to pretend he isn’t waiting for a text, but there are things Ryan is better at than self-denial.

“What about Brendon and Spencer?”

“I think they’re checking out the other bands? Spencer likes to know who he’s dealing with. Brendon’s keeping him company.” Ryan twists his phone between his fingers, turning it over and then over again. He’s just barely resisting the urge to flip it open and closed, despite how annoying he knows that is.

Brian shrugs again, like that makes sense. It really does.

“They’ll report back at some point.” It’s not like Ryan’s new at being alone. Plus, he never minds hanging around with Gerard. As long as Gerard doesn’t mind him hanging around.

“We’ve been keeping him occupied, Brian, don’t worry,” Gerard says, and smiles. Brian rolls his eyes, but in the way he always does at Gerard – like he’s exasperated, when really he’s charmed despite himself.

“So, you know how the Warped thing works, right? You play at a different time every show? Et cetera, et cetera?” Brian raises his eyebrows at Ryan, and it’s Ryan’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Yes, Brian, I’m not completely new to Warped. I’ve actually attended a few times, even.” Brian snorts at the sarcasm in Ryan’s voice. Ryan doesn’t really mind Brian checking in with them, honestly. It’s sort of good to know that someone’s looking out for them.

“Well, okay then. Hey, Frank, you wanna hand me a controller? It’s time for me to kick your ass.”

“That’s what you always say,” Frank says, laughing. “And yet, you’ve never managed it.”

“Shut up and hand it over, kid.” Brian settles cross-legged on the floor. Gerard’s already turned back to his notebook. Ryan turns his cell over in his hands again and just watches.

+

Brendon’s slightly tipsy when he gets back to the van that night. Neither Ryan nor Spencer are sleeping yet, which is fortunate given how much noise Brendon makes when he pulls the van door open. He stumbles, giggling, and then clambers up into the van, slamming the door behind him.

Ryan had returned to the van a few hours earlier, finding Spencer already there, sitting in the passenger seat with a book.

“You’re back,” Ryan had said. “Where’s Brendon?”

“He found a party,” Spencer said with a shrug. “I didn’t feel like drinking, so I told him I was coming back.” Ryan didn’t say anything. He’d just climbed into the front row and leaned back against the window. He could see the side of Spencer’s face, hear him sigh when he put his book down. “He’ll be back, eventually,” Spencer said.

“I know,” Ryan had said. “Tell me about the people you met.”

Now, Brendon collapses almost bonelessly into the second row and says, “You guys missed an awesome party.”

“Looks like it,” Ryan says, and raises his eyebrows. Spencer’s turned halfway around in the seat, watching Brendon. “Have fun?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and yawns. “Pete Wentz was there. He asked me about you.”

“About me?” Ryan asks, watching Brendon’s eyes slide halfway closed. “Why?”

Brendon shrugs. “Who knows. Mikey was with him. Maybe that’s why.” He yawns again. Brendon’s never been a big drinker, so it’s probably the alcohol getting to him.

“Go to sleep, Brendon,” Spencer says, most likely thinking the same thing. Ryan watches Brendon’s eyes close.

“Kay,” he says. It doesn’t take long for his breathing to even out.

“You got something going on with Pete Wentz?” Spencer asks, grinning at Ryan.

“I have no fucking idea,” Ryan replies.

+

Their set is at 11:45 on one of the side stages. It sucks, a little, to go on so early, since it means waking up early, but Ryan doesn’t mind having the time afterward to see the other sets. There are a lot of bands worth seeing.

They open with _Tacks for Snacks_ , and Ryan doesn’t notice until halfway through the song that Pete’s watching from the side of the stage. When Ryan sees him, their eyes catch, and Pete smiles. Ryan almost misses his next cue. He spends the rest of the set staring at his guitar strings and not much else.

+

Pete catches up with Ryan once they get off the stage.

“Hey, yo, Ryan,” Pete says, grabbing Ryan’s elbow. Ryan’s got to help move their shit from the stage, but he doesn’t pull away yet. Spencer rolls his eyes and slings his towel over his shoulder; Brendon raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Hi, Pete,” Ryan says.

“Mikey played me some of your demos. These versions are better.” Pete’s grin is wide, showing his massive teeth.

“We’ve gotten better since recording those.” Brent’s bass playing is still on the demos. Sometimes Ryan has a hard time listening to them.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, hooking his chin over Ryan’s shoulder. “Just wait until you hear the album.” 

Pete looks at Brendon, and then back at Ryan. He’s still smiling.

“I’m looking forward to it, believe me.” Pete’s voice isn’t insincere, as far as Ryan can tell. Ryan’s not sure why he doesn’t want to like Pete – after all, Pete’s always been one of his musical idols. “Oh, hey, anyway,” Pete continues, “we should hang out. I’m pretty sure there’ll be a party by our bus tonight. Come chill.”

Brendon’s elbow digs into Ryan’s back, and Ryan doesn’t have to be able to see Brendon’s face to know what that means.

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says. “We’ll see you later.”

+

Ryan watches Fall Out Boy’s set that afternoon. He knows all the words to every song, and can’t help mouthing along, standing off to the side of the stage. Pete’s definitely charismatic, that’s for sure.

During _Saturday_ , he gets a text from Mikey - _haven’t seen u much – 2nite? fob party?_

Ryan stares at his phone and sighs. If he wasn’t already going to go, it looks like he would be now.

+

There always seem to be several parties going on at once on Warped. Ryan passes at least two on his search for Fall Out Boy’s bus. He hears Pete’s loud laughter before he actually sees the party, sitting on the dusty ground in front of the bus. There are already eight or ten discarded beer cans and what looks like a handle of vodka is being passed around. 

“Ross!” Pete says, loudly, and waves him over. Mikey’s standing, leaning against the back wheel, holding a can of beer in one hand. He waves with his free hand, and smiles a little. Ryan can’t help but wonder if Mikey ever really grins, and if he’ll ever see it. He lets Pete grab him by the wrist and drag him around, introducing. Ryan won’t remember anyone’s name, probably, but he doesn’t think anyone will blame him.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, belatedly.

“Hey,” Pete says, grinning, and punches Ryan on the arm. “Grab a beer, take a seat, have fun.” Ryan manages a smile, and grabs a beer from the cooler – it’s Coors Lite, but he’s not expecting class at a party taking place in a parking lot, outside of a bus. He sits down on the fringe of the group and tries not to watch Mikey talk to Pete.

+

He’s on his third shitty beer and feeling a little buzzed when he realizes that he’s been arguing with one of the dudes from The Academy Is… about art history for something like two hours. And that he doesn’t even mind.

“Look,” the Butcher says, leaning forward as if to confide something, “I’m really drunk. I don’t know how many more facts I can make up about Warhol. Truce?”

Ryan smiles. “Truce,” he says.

“Cool.” the Butcher stands then, and stretches his arms over his head. “I’m going to find some place to piss. Let’s continue this discussion on more sober ground, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says, and watches the Butcher amble off. Pete’s off to one side leaning his head on Bill Beckett’s shoulder, talking loudly enough that Ryan can hear the tone of his voice, but softly enough that he can’t make out the words. Most of the rest of the group has disbanded and wandered off elsewhere. Ryan could probably go back to the van, but he’s feeling pretty comfortable, even with his ass on the cold pavement.

“Hey,” Mikey says, and sits next to him, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He sits kind of like a dead spider; long limbs tugged in as close to his torso as possible, all sharp edges and angles.

“Hey,” Ryan says, and finishes his beer. He lines the can up neatly next to the other two, and looks at them all in a row. He’s not that tipsy, really – he doesn’t drink much, but his tolerance isn’t exactly nonexistent, either – but he’s feeling a little looser than he might otherwise. “Having fun?”

“I’m drunk, so, yes,” Mikey says, and smiles, one side of his mouth quirked up. He holds his alcohol well. Ryan can barely tell that he’s been drinking at all; he seems a little freer with his expressions, but other than that he’s almost the same.

“Hm,” Ryan says, lips pressed together. He doesn’t know exactly what to say to that. He wants to ask what Gerard thinks of the fact that Mikey still drinks, but he knows that it’s none of his business. He wonders if Mikey goes back to the bus drunk. 

“Gerard knows I still drink,” Mikey says, like he’s read Ryan’s mind. Maybe Mikey could just tell from the expression on his face, but Ryan doesn’t like to think that he’s that easy to read.

“I didn’t ask anything,” Ryan says. “It’s not my business.” Mikey’s still smiling that half-smile, so it doesn’t seem like he minds, but Ryan can’t always tell with Mikey. 

“I know,” Mikey says. “Because you have tact. Still.” He sighs, and sprawls back on the asphalt, staring up at the sky. His head almost hits a discarded bottle of vodka and his left hand is perilously close to toppling Ryan’s neat line of cans, but Ryan’s just watching the shadows of Mikey’s jaw and the line of his throat. “You were probably wondering, though,” Mikey adds. The light catches his Adam’s apple and the side of his neck as he talks, and Ryan watches the muscles move under his skin.

“Well, yeah.” Ryan shrugs, though he’s pretty sure Mikey can’t see it from this angle. “Sorry.” He’s not going to lie. He still thinks that he has no reason to ask about it, but if Mikey’s going to volunteer the information freely, he’s not going to say no, either.

“He tries not to mind, and I try not to come back smelling like alcohol. It’s a working compromise.” Mikey lifts one shoulder in half a shrug, which looks awkward given his position on the ground. “Does that bother you?”

Ryan opens his mouth, and almost says, _Me? What the fuck does my opinion matter?_ , but decides against it. This conversation isn’t really about him, anyway. “Not especially,” Ryan says. “Should it?”

Mikey just shrugs again. Ryan looks over to the bus, and Pete appears to have fallen asleep, still leaning on Bill. Pete’s a pretty good host, all things considered. Ryan didn’t even have to pay for any of the booze.

“I’m glad I came to this party,” Ryan says. He’s surprised. He’d figured he’d show up, feel excluded, and leave after fifteen minutes. Spencer told him he was being a pessimistic asshole, as usual, but that wasn’t really a surprise, coming from Spencer. He’s probably never going to live it down.

“Me too,” Mikey says. “I mean, I’m glad that you came.”

Ryan smiles. “Thanks.”

+

Ryan wakes up at 10 AM the next day to a text from Pete.

_so hngovr_ , it says, _send hlp_

Ryan’s not sure how Pete got his number, but apparently he’s fair game for texting now that Ryan showed up to his party. Ryan’s not sure how he feels about this, yet, so he doesn’t bother to answer. It’s still early, anyway, and they’re not going on until 4:15 PM.

They’d left after Ryan got back from the party. It was just after 1 AM, but the drive from Columbus to Milwaukee was seven and a half hours long, and they didn’t have a driver to do the driving for them. Brendon had been sleeping already in the back row of the van, so Spencer had agreed to drive the first half, until Ryan was sober enough. Ryan slept the first four hours, and then drove from Lafayette to the Marcus Amphitheatre. He’d put Taking Back Sunday into the CD player, and listened to _Tell All Your Friends_ quietly through the front speakers to keep himself awake, while Spencer climbed into one of the back rows for a few hours of shut-eye. They got in around 8:30, so by the time Pete texted him, he’d only been sleeping for an hour and a half.

Ryan snorts. It’s certainly going to be an interesting summer in terms of sleeping patterns. Ryan wonders how they’re going to fare on the days they perform early in the day.

+

He wakes up for good just before noon, and shucks his dirty shirt, pulling a mostly clean one over his head. He changes into a new pair of boxers, but wears the same jeans. They have a day off between Milwaukee and Maryland Heights, and Ryan’s already looking forward to a shower.

Spencer’s still sleeping, but Brendon’s already gone.

_where r u?_ , he texts to Brendon, and then, after some thought, forwards the same message to Brent, who he hasn’t heard from in a few days.

Brent’s response is quick. _driving 2 seattle_ , he says, _shouldn’t txt behind wheel sry. l8r_

Brendon takes slightly longer, and his just says, _merch tent. selling shirts to tiny girls. help?_. Ryan snorts, but they don’t really have a crew, so Brendon’s either bored or swamped, neither of which is very good. Brian had said that, since they didn’t really have someone to do merch for them, they could sell shirts and demos at My Chem’s tent for the time being. When Ryan had asked Gerard, he hadn’t seemed to mind, and had even drawn them a sign to tape to the front of the tent to advertise where they were.

It takes Ryan ten minutes to find Brendon and the tent. He’d left a note for Spencer, taped to the steering wheel, where he’d see it, and left the van as quietly as possible. It’s already hot outside, sunny and bright. It’s not quite as hot as Ryan’s used to, but it’s more humid. Brendon’s sitting in a folding chair behind My Chem’s merch table. He doesn’t seem very busy.

“Help you with what, exactly?” Ryan asks, ducking under the table. Brendon shrugs.

“Bored. Dudes from My Chem are probably still sleeping, or whatever, and you were obviously awake.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t actually mind. “Sell anything?”

“Mostly My Chem shirts and buttons and things, but I’ve been talking our band up to anyone who’ll listen, pretty much. Sold a few demos. Some of them promised to check out our show, but who knows, right?”

“We’ll just have to see, I guess,” Ryan says, and looks at the demos piled on the folding table. He’ll be relieved when the album comes out for real. Less than a month now, if he thinks about it. He’s not expecting it to sell much, but he will be relieved to put the demos away.

“Y’know, Ross, we’re going places. Just got to keep trucking,” Brendon says, and stretches his feet out, leaning back in the chair. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He never thought they’d even be here, honestly.

+

Ryan mans the merch table for another hour, because he’s got nothing better to do, and he doesn’t mind it. Brendon wanders off to get breakfast, but Ryan’s only alone for half an hour or so before My Chem’s merch dude, Dan, gets back from the food tent and takes over. Ryan wonders if he brought a book on this tour. Probably.

“Ryan.” Ryan looks up, and Mikey is standing in front of the merch table, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. Ryan wonders how he’s not hot.

“Hey, Mikey.” He’d walked halfway back to the van with Mikey after the party, before they’d gone their separate ways. They hadn’t talked much more. It wasn’t awkward, but Ryan had wondered what Mikey was thinking about. He hadn’t asked.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here. Brendon’s playing Halo again with Frank, and he said he left you here just after noon.”

Ryan shrugs. “Nowhere else to be until four. Figured I’d be helpful instead of bored.”

“Well, I’m hungry. Warped always makes me want corndogs, but they don’t actually sell them at most of the venues. Sadly. Lunch?” Mikey raises his eyebrows behind his glasses and lifts his shoulder questioningly.

“I could eat,” Ryan says.

+

They end up on the grass way back from one of the main stages, sharing chicken fingers and French fries. Ryan’s cross-legged, squeezing catsup packets out onto each bite of chicken. Mikey’s eating his plain, which Ryan finds kind of weird, but he’s not really one to talk.

Mikey’s sitting on his hoodie so as not to get grass on his jeans, though why he’d care at this point, Ryan’s not sure. Ryan’s sweating, eating hot food on a hot day, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

After they finish, Mikey says, “Want to go watch Fall Out Boy play?”

+

Fall Out Boy is playing on the other main stage, and, though they could stand side stage, Mikey and Ryan stand behind the main crowd to watch the show.

“I used to listen to Fall Out Boy all the time,” Ryan says, in between humming along and mouthing the words. He can’t dance, and can’t see himself moshing without either hurting himself or the people around him, but Mikey’s just standing there, his hands stuffed in his pockets, so Ryan doesn’t really feel bad about it. He tries to imagine Mikey dancing, and can’t really see it.

“Makes sense,” Mikey says. “Sometimes you do that play on words thing in your lyrics that Pete does.” Ryan turns to Mikey in surprise, and Mikey smiles that half-smile again. “What? I listen to your demos all the time, dude. Why do you think I played them for Pete? They’re _good_.”

“Didn’t know you listened that closely.” Onstage, Pete’s leaning into Patrick’s shoulder, but Ryan’s watching Mikey – his quirked smile, his raised eyebrow.

“I know every word to all three songs, just ask Gerard. The album better come out soon, just to give me something else to listen to.”

Ryan’s not sure what his expression looks like, but whatever it is, it makes Mikey laugh, loudly and slightly goofily. 

Finally, Ryan says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

+

Ryan finally texts Pete back after he and Mikey part ways – Mikey back to his bus, and Ryan to find Spencer. 

_yr hangover didnt seem to hurt yr show_ , he texts, and doesn’t expect an answer anytime soon.

_u saw the show?_ , Pete responds, less than a minute later, and Ryan stares at his phone in surprise. Pete is a fast texter.

_mikey & i watched u from the crowd_

_mikeys a good kid_ , Pete says, but Ryan’s not sure exactly what Pete means by the comment, or why he’s saying it to Ryan, so Ryan doesn’t say anything back. He wonders if that’s going to be a pattern with Pete.

+

Spencer is leaning back against the front wheel of the van, reading a book, which Ryan is pretty sure is his. He feels a little badly that he hasn’t spoken to Spencer yet today, and it’s after 3 PM.

“You haven’t been here all day, have you?” Ryan asks, sitting down next to Spencer.

“Nope,” Spencer says, marking his place with a bookmark – Spencer doesn’t dog-ear his books unless he’s read them more than once – and puts the book down on his lap. “I’ve been around.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. “I was pretty scarce today, sorry.”

Spencer snorts. “Whatever, Ryan, I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own fun.”

“Okay,” Ryan says again.

“Thanks for the concern, though.” Spencer punches Ryan in the arm and stands, tucking the book under his arm. 

“We should probably get to the stage. We’re on soon.”

+

Brendon’s driving that night when Brent calls Ryan. 

“Not driving anymore?” Ryan says, when he answers the phone.

“Nope, not my turn,” Brent says. “Thankfully.”

Someone in the background says something that sounds like, “For everyone involved, really.”

“Seriously, one near miss –” Brent says, possibly to Ryan and possibly to whomever else is in the van with him.

“Brent, you are terrifying behind the wheel. We’re never letting you drive at night again.”

“Whoever that is has a point,” Ryan says. “You are a terrifying driver.”

“Shut up, Ryan,” Brent says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “How’s Warped?”

Ryan’s just kind of happy to hear Brent’s voice. He doesn’t have that many friends, and he’d rather get along with Brent, in the end, than be in a band with him. Ryan leans back against the window, stretching his legs out along the seat, and starts talking.

+

Brendon drives most of the way to Maryland Heights, but they don’t have a show the next day, so there’s not much of a rush. They stop for the night outside Springfield, Illinois, mostly because Brendon’s been driving for four hours, and he sees a laser tag place by the side of the road.

“You guys,” he says, when they pull into the motel parking lot. “Tomorrow. Laser tag. We’re doing it.”

“There’re only three of us, Brendon,” Spencer says, “that’s not going to be that interesting. We’d probably wander around and never find each other.”

“Spence, I’m pretty sure you don’t know what fun is. We’ll fucking, I don’t know, invite other people to come. Everyone on the tour is going to the same fucking place.” Brendon pauses, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “No, y’know what? I’m calling Frank.” And he does.

Ryan’s actually sleeping for the entirety of this conversation, but Spencer recounts it for him a few minutes later, in excruciating detail, after they’ve gotten into their room for the night. Ryan’s not really against laser tag, as a rule. He’s not very good at it, though.

+

Ryan doesn’t expect anyone to show up for laser tag except the three of them. Which he would be fine with, actually. But the next morning, he wakes up at noon to a missed call from Gerard, and a text from Frank, which just says, _lets do this shit_.

He brushes his teeth and takes a fucking _shower_ , which is awesome, and puts on clean-ish clothes. They’ve only been on tour for three days and he’s already stopped expecting to have clean things. Brendon’s already awake, showered, and dressed, but Spencer’s just waking up when Ryan gets out of the bathroom. He points the empty bathroom out to Spencer, and then calls Gerard back.

“So, where is this place we’re going,” Gerard says instead of any sort of greeting.

“Uh. I have no idea. Two blocks away from the motel where we are? Like, right off the highway, at some strip mall.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Gerard doesn’t sound particularly sarcastic, even when he _is_ sarcastic. 

“Sorry, I’ve never really explored Illinois,” Ryan says, and sticks the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulls on his socks. “Brendon didn’t tell Frank?”

“I have no idea,” Gerard says, cheerfully. He’s probably already had an entire pot of coffee. “I don’t even care, really, but Bob and Frank are all gung-ho, and Brian didn’t even complain that much, which means he’s looking forward to it, so.” Then he turns away from the phone and yells for Frank, who says something muffled in return. “Whatever, we’ll figure it out.”

+

In the end, Ryan tells Brendon to call Frank, they exchange directions of some sort, and then Brendon makes Ryan drive there because he “drove the whole way here, Jesus, it’s like four miles, Ross.” Brendon sometimes cares strongly about very odd and occasionally obnoxious things.

My Chem’s bus is already in the parking lot when they get there, and Bob, Frank, and Brian are all outside milling around and smoking cigarettes. Gerard is sitting on the asphalt, tapping his fingers against his knees and ashing his own cigarette as he talks to Ray, who is leaning over him, gesticulating. Mikey’s not outside the bus.

Brendon and Frank vote themselves as team captains, unsurprisingly, and proceed to pick their teams by playground lottery, alternating selections. Brendon’s team is Spencer, Ryan, and Brian, though Brendon picks Brian before he picks Ryan, presumably to keep Frank from getting him, if the way Frank scowls is anything to go by. 

“Traitor,” Frank says, stubbing his cigarette out under his shoe and crossing his arms. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“We’ll see, little man,” Brian says. He’s grinning. “Put your money where your mouth is.” Ryan’s never known anyone who actually says shit like that in real life, but Brian’s actually a frightening human being, so he pulls it off alright.

Bob, Ray, and Gerard end up on Frank’s team. Gerard is the only one picked after Ryan, but he doesn’t seem that offended by it. Mikey, apparently, isn’t on My Chem’s bus at all. Ryan takes his weapon, and doesn’t ask any questions.

+

Ryan really does suck at laser tag. They don’t have any sort of strategy, and Ray is some kind of laser tag freak of nature, or maybe he’s following Ryan, or something, because he’s probably shot Ryan at least twelve times. Ryan doesn’t really care, because he captured Frank, for a while, anyway, and he’s sweaty, and tired, and it’s actually pretty awesome.

Brendon and Brian seem to be offensive players, and Spencer stays on the defensive, but Ryan just keeps getting lost and wandering away. He runs into Gerard about an hour into the game and after they shoot at each other a few times, Gerard yells, “Truce?” into the black lit darkness.

“Uh,” Ryan says. It’s not like either of them are hitting anything. They both have awful aim. “Sure. Why not.” 

He’s pretty sure it’s against the rules, but he doesn’t actually care. They sit against one of the walls, and put their rifles over their laps.

“I suck at these games,” Gerard says. He’s breathing a little hard, but he doesn’t sound too put out. It’s too dark for Ryan to see his expression. “Too much running and aiming and being tense the whole time.”

“I wasn’t even good at regular tag.” Ryan shrugs.

“Yeah, dude, the getting picked last thing? Happened to me all the time in gym class. Flashbacks to high school, man.” 

Ryan laughs. “Me too. Let’s get lunch after this, okay?”

+

The strip mall also includes a shitty diner attached to the laser tag place, so they get lunch there. It’s order at the counter, but the place is empty, so there’s not much of a wait. They have corndogs on the menu, and Ryan thinks of Mikey. He orders a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and a side of French fries, and sits next to Gerard at the table. 

“Dude, there’re fucking mirrors on the ceiling,” Gerard says when he sits down. Ryan looks up and sees himself staring back. He looks kind of disheveled and a little flushed. He hadn’t even been running that much.

“So, where’s your brother?” Ryan asks, looking back down at Gerard. He tries to keep his voice light, and he thinks he manages relatively well.

“Mikey’s crashing on Fall Out Boy’s bus,” Ray says, sliding into the booth across from Gerard and Ryan. Brendon and Spencer are still ordering. Bob, Brian, and Frank seem to be forgoing food altogether in return for nicotine. Gerard, though also a smoker, seems to be putting more stake in food for the moment. Frank will make them come inside, eventually, if only because he’s never been one to pass up greasy diner sandwiches.

“Yeah, he’s been hanging with Pete a lot, lately,” Gerard says, and waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. Ray snorts, and pops a French fry into his mouth.

“Oh,” Ryan says. He can feel his stomach tighten unpleasantly. “Good for him, I guess?” Gerard and Ray crack up, and Ryan tries on a half smile.

Brendon comes over then, and begins to talk loudly about how much his team had kicked their team’s asses. Ryan doesn’t mind letting the topic change again.

When Spencer squashes in next to Ryan on the bench and asks, “Hey, you okay?” Ryan just nods and takes a bite of his sandwich.

+

Still, when he leaves, he takes a picture of the sign on the front of the building which says, “Joe’s Laser Tag and Lunch,” in big black letters, and sends it to Pete and Mikey. He writes, in the text box, _u guys missed out_.

Gerard hands him a diner napkin before they leave, and Ryan looks at it when they pile back into the van. It’s a picture of him grinning at Frank, who is gesturing expansively with his fingers. It’s just a sketch, but it’s a pretty good one – he’d even scribbled in the barest contours of Frank’s tattoos. Underneath, written in Gerard’s pointy scrawl, it says, _cheer up, emo kid_. Ryan almost laughs, and carefully puts it in between the pages of one of his notebooks.

+

The next few days are hotter than it’s been so far, and Ryan can’t stay inside the van for any length of time without feeling like he’s going to bake. There’s no point in wasting gas by leaving the engine running and the a/c on, so they instead decide to spend as little time as possible there. They play early at both Maryland Heights and Bonner Springs, which makes for a few tense and sleep deprived driving trips – it’s only a four hour drive between the two, but after a long, hot day, it feels a lot longer. Spencer snaps at Brendon twice, and they end the trip in total silence. Ryan tries to sleep through the whole thing, but the heat makes him restless.

Luckily, they have another day off between Bonner Springs and Dallas, which is good, since the drive is over eight hours long. Not as bad at the drive to Columbus had been at the beginning, but not a drive they want to make between the hours of 10 PM and 6 AM. 

Ryan spends a lot of time on My Chem’s bus, out of the heat. Gerard tends not to go out as much as his bandmates, for reasons Ryan is unsure of. Maybe he’s afraid of the temptation, given the amount of drinking on the tour in general. Ryan doesn’t ask, though. He just sits on the couch, and listens to Gerard explain the concept of his comic book – characters rendered mostly in sketch, and a plot almost entirely in his head. Ryan doesn’t mind listening. Brian sits at the table with his laptop, occasionally glancing over at them, and Ray comes out of the back lounge every few hours to play them the riffs he’s transferred over to his laptop. It’s a relaxing way to spend the day.

+

Ryan gets a text from Pete while they’re somewhere in Oklahoma. He thinks that they’re close to Oklahoma City, but he’s not really sure.

“Where are we?” he asks, and Spencer snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Does it matter?” Spencer’s voice is dry and amused. It’s one of the expressions Ryan likes most.

“Not really. Pete was asking.” The text actually says _where r u were at the venue & partying_, but Ryan doesn’t think that Spencer would care that much.

“We’re about thirty miles outside Oklahoma City. So, a little more than halfway, probably.”

“What’s in Oklahoma City, anyway?” Brendon asks, and reaches over to turn up the music – they’re currently playing some jazz shit that Spencer stole from his parents, but Brendon really likes it, so he keeps slowly turning it up. It’s pretty much what always happens when Brendon sits in the passenger seat.

“I have no fucking clue,” Spencer says. “I’ve never been there.”

Brendon turns around to roll his eyes dramatically at Ryan.

It’s still hot, the a/c half-heartedly cooling the front seats and then trickling to nothing by the time it reaches the back of the van. Ryan can feel his skin sticking to the seat, and he wonders if it’s going to squeak when he tries to move. He wishes that he owned more tank tops.

The next highway sign says _Oklahoma City: 25 miles_ , and Ryan gets a picture text from Mikey. A mostly empty bottle of Jack and an open notebook filled with scrawled, illegible words. There’s no accompanying note; Ryan doesn’t know what to think.

_enjoy the party_ , he says, and then stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

+

Texas is a fucking big state, and they have three consecutive shows there. Ryan doesn’t care except that it’s dry and hot enough to remind him of Nevada. He’s still not homesick. Spencer’s called his family two or three times so far, and Ryan can tell that he misses them a little. They’re all getting used to being on the road again, but it’s a slow thing. It’s been a few months since they toured. Ryan sort of misses produce – pizza, French fries, and sour worms are filling but not exactly healthy.

The crowds for their sets are getting bigger. Ryan didn’t really pay attention at first – they play on one of the side stages, so it’s not like they get the benefit of large crowds waiting for the band coming on after them. Still, Ryan notices the girls at the barrier who sing along, and the rows behind them who dance but don’t know the words. There are enough kids who come to their merch table after the show and buy the demos, saying they’d liked the set.

More than a few of them have even asked Ryan to sign the CD, which is one of the weirdest things Ryan’s had to do, probably in his entire life. He doesn’t feel famous at all. He doesn’t practice his signature on diner napkins or anything. Sometimes they ask him where Brendon and Spencer are. It’s definitely something to get used to.

+

In Selma, the last of the Texas shows, they play at 3:30 PM, after This Providence. Ryan heads to the merch tent after they break down, mostly because Brendon had mentioned onstage that they would be hanging out there, and he doesn’t want to make a liar out of Brendon. 

Brendon’s already there when he arrives, but he’s caught up talking to a group of girls. Ryan ducks under the table and grabs one of the folding chairs. It’s only when he looks over again that he notices that three of the seven girls are wearing Fall Out Boy t-shirts. He leans over Brendon, propping his elbow on Brendon’s shoulder.

“ – you for coming to the show, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Brendon is saying, and he glances over his shoulder at Ryan, acknowledging him before turning back to the girls.

“Pete from Fall Out Boy mentioned you onstage this morning,” one of the girls says. She’s got red dye in her hair and a Fall Out Boy shirt on that looks new. He wonders if she’s just bought it. “He said to check you out. We weren’t doing anything else, so.” She shrugs.

Ryan’s surprised, but he’s not sure why. Pete had said that he liked their music, so it’s not exactly a stretch that he’d mention it onstage.

“You guys were great, by the way,” one of the other girls says. She’s wearing a lot of eye makeup, and her smile looks friendly. “Not what I was expecting.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says, and smiles.

They end up buying a few copies of the demo, and asking Brendon and Ryan to sign them. Ryan’s really never going to get used to that.

After they leave, Ryan texts Pete, saying, _thanx 4 the vote of confidence_.

_what?_ Pete replies about two minutes later.

_the onstage shop talk. thanx_ , Ryan sends back, tapping his foot restlessly against the dirt. Brendon’s talking to some My Chem fan about musical arrangements.

_np_ , Pete says, _just tellin it like it is_.

Ryan snorts, but doesn’t know what to say to that.

+

They have a day off between Selma and Las Cruces.

“I think it’s time to maybe find a Laundromat,” Brendon says. “I’ve been wearing this shirt for three days now. Next time we tour, remind me to pack more clothing, please.”

“Sure, I’ll get right on that,” Spencer says. “Whatever, Laundromat it is, then.”

Ryan’s driving, so it officially becomes Brendon and Spencer’s job to watch out for places to stop. There’s about seven and a half hours of nothing between Selma and El Paso, so most of the time is spent otherwise – they stock up on junk food for the drive, and stop after four hours or so to have a picnic by the side of the road. Spencer ends up reading in the back, and Brendon props his feet on the dash and watches the desert go by. It’s odd for him to be silent for any length of time, but it’s been a long day, and even Brendon has to get tired sometime. The quiet is nice. In the end, they have to stop at a motel just outside El Paso and ask for directions to the nearest Laundromat, but they don’t have far to go.

Ryan takes a picture of his pile of dirty laundry on top of the washer, and sends it to Mikey, with the text _laundry day!_ underneath.

_laundry is for the weak_ , Mikey replies. _i just smell bad, its less effort_

+

They get to Las Cruces the night of the 27th, and most of the tour has already arrived. The show isn’t until the next morning, so there’s plenty of time to hang out, or sleep. Or, in the case of much of the tour, drink.

The parties have already started by the time they get there, but Ryan’s not surprised. He may not hang out with most of the guys on the tour, but he’s been on Warped long enough to know that any downtime means drinking. He doesn’t really mind.

It’s the end of June in New Mexico, and that means that, even this far into the evening, the wind is hot against Ryan’s skin. He’s antsy enough that it doesn’t bother him, and once they’ve parked, he turns to Spencer and says, “Hey, take a walk with me.”

Brendon’s sleeping, but he’ll call them once he wakes up, if he doesn’t just go find Frank or Bob. 

“Sure,” Spencer says, and snorts. “I never thought I could get this sick of a moving vehicle before.”

“I never thought I’d miss sleeping in a bed this much.” Ryan’s learned to be jealous of the bands with actual buses – bunks aren’t exactly private, and don’t actually count as real beds, but they’re better than seatbelts digging into his back in the middle of the night.

They pass some sort of barbecue and two groups of roaming drunk people. There are too many bands for Ryan to remember who everyone is and what band they’re from. Spencer stops at a picnic table, sitting on top of it, his feet propped on the seat. The sun is setting now, but Ryan can’t even see the horizon over the sea of buses and vans.

“So what’s up?” Spencer asks, leaning back on the palms of his hands. Ryan sits next to Spencer’s feet on the bench, and folds his arms on top of the table, resting his chin on top of them.

“What do you mean?” he asks, mumbling the words against the skin of his arms.

“Dunno,” Spencer says, and shrugs. “You’re restless. I figured something might be up.”

Ryan huffs out a breath, and wonders if he should resent Spencer for knowing him so well. He can’t really, even if he’d wanted to, since if it were the other way around, he’d probably do the same. Spencer just happens to get himself into fewer binds than Ryan does.

“It’s nothing you have to worry about.” What he really means is _it’s nothing you should be worrying about_ , but that’s never worked on Spencer, so he doesn’t bother anymore. Ryan’s personal life isn’t something that Spencer should be able to fix – it’s not something that he’d be able to, even if he knew what the problem was.

“Whatever, dude.” Spencer tilts his head back, blowing his bangs away from his eyes with a puff of air. He needs a haircut; they all sort of do, actually. He stares at the sky instead of at Ryan’s face, the slow-changing colors of it. Ryan’s starting to have a hard time making out his expression.

“If you have to worry, I’ll tell you,” Ryan promises. Maybe not one he’ll keep. He’ll think about it, though.

“Sure,” Spencer says, easily. It’s clear that if he thought it was important, he’d call Ryan on his bullshit. Ryan’s pretty sure that’s all he needs from Spencer, really.

+

The show in Las Cruces is shit, and it’s completely Ryan’s fault. Pete sends Ryan a text half an hour before they go on, and it says, _u should try being in love, ross. sticky summer heat is the best for it_. Ryan can’t concentrate on anything but the way Mikey and Pete are never apart.

Brendon is on key the entire show, and Spencer never misses a beat, but Ryan’s fingers just seem to catch on the strings, fucking up riffs he hasn’t messed up since he and Brendon wrote them together. It shouldn’t affect him this much. This is his fucking job.

He drinks half a bottle of water in one go, and doesn’t meet Brendon’s eyes. He’ll do better. He will.

+

After the show, Ryan breaks down but doesn’t say much. He knows that Spencer, at least, wants to ask, but he really doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s not sure exactly what there is to say. He doesn’t go back to the van, instead content to wander the grounds, alone in his head. 

There’s no excuse.

Somehow he ends up at a party populated mostly by The Academy Is… and extended crew. There are a few dudes from other bands that Ryan doesn’t know, but Pete and Mikey aren’t there, so it’s fine with Ryan. The Butcher nods at him and hands him a beer. Ryan spends most of the night watching their tech, Jon, take pictures of the drunken shenanigans – Bill singing an impromptu cover of Creep from the doorway of their bus, the Butcher and Sisky initiating a drum circle, a half-assed game of King’s. 

Jon’s pretty cool, showing Ryan the pictures on the LCD screen, handing him a beer when he finishes his first. He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to talk much. Jon doesn’t press, and Ryan doesn’t offer anything.

Spencer and Brendon are both sleeping by the time he gets back to the van. He doesn’t want to wake them. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

+

After Las Cruces, they have a straight week of shows with no break. Ryan goes into the week knowing that there will be little to no down time, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to not fuck up again. The album drops in two weeks, and he has to be at his best.

He catches Pete and Mikey together, backstage in Peoria. Ryan likes saying that out loud, _Peoria, Peoria, Peoria_ , until it stops making sense. It’s half fantastical place name and half overly scientific body part. Xena and uvula mixed together. Pete is sitting on an amp, Mikey leaning against it. Mikey’s elbow is propped on Pete’s thigh; it’s the first thing Ryan notices. Pete’s foot pressed to Mikey’s hip.

“Ross!” Pete calls out to him, and Ryan looks up. Pretends he hadn’t spotted them already. Mikey’s looking at him, glasses sliding down on his nose, but Ryan can’t be sure if he sees through the act. “Yo, Ross, come here.”

Ryan trots over, trying on a smile. He doesn’t hate Pete. He can’t really – Pete’s been nothing but nice, if puzzlingly over-friendly.

“Hey,” Ryan says, voice even. “How’re you guys?”

“I know, I know,” Pete says, grinning. “Long time no see.”

“We watched the sun set over the highway last night,” Mikey says. “I almost took a picture for you, but then I got distracted.” He shrugs.

“It happens,” Ryan says, and tries to ignore the way Pete glances at Mikey, the way his grin turns wolfish.

“I texted you,” Pete says, in that _see, I’m a better friend_ kind of tone, and Mikey rolls his eyes. “You did get it, right?”

“Yep,” Ryan says, and remembers the previous day’s show. “I got it right before we went onstage.”

“Good.” Pete kicks his feet against the amp, and Mikey reaches over to still him, pressing his palm against Pete’s ankle. “You didn’t text me back.”

Ryan shrugs. “I had a show,” he says. “I forgot after. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Pete says. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me.”

+

Chula Vista is overwhelmingly hot. It’s still not July, technically, until the next day, but summer is definitely in full swing. Ryan spends most of the day in the shade backstage with a book. He doesn’t talk to anyone, but around 12:30 Spencer sits next to him and hands him a bottle of water. They sit in silence, and Ryan remembers, again, why he likes Spencer so much.

+

The show in Long Beach is actually fantastic. The day is windier, which helps, but they’re really getting used to playing these songs. Brendon glances over at him halfway through the set, during the drum break on _Martyrdom_ , and grins wide enough to show all of his teeth. The crowd is shaking their fists at them, Ryan’s words on the lips of more people than he thought possible, and _this_ is why they do this at all. Why this is worth it.

+

Brendon drives to San Francisco on the second of July, and it’s raining for the first time since the tour started. The highway is slick with it, and Ryan watches the way the break lights of the cars in front of them blur red through the film of water on the windshield. After an hour or so, Spencer climbs into the back row with Ryan. He doesn’t say anything, at first, but Ryan can tell that he wants to. Ryan’s sort of been expecting this for a few days now. He’s been sullen and moody – he knows this. And when he withdraws for a significant length of time, Spencer tends to make him spill whatever the fuck it is, if only for the band’s sake and Spencer’s own piece of mind.

“You going to be cooperative, or is this going to be difficult?” Spencer asks, speaking quietly. Ryan has to lean in to hear him over he rattling of the a/c. Spencer’s probably trying to give them some privacy, but Ryan honestly doesn’t care; Brendon knows enough of his secrets. What’s one more?

“Depends,” Ryan says. “Probably somewhere in-between.” He shrugs, and can feel the press of Spencer’s chest against his shoulder when he does. 

Spencer doesn’t say anything to that, which is mostly because he doesn’t have to. Ryan sighs; they haven’t played the waiting game in a long time, but it’s always a toss up as to who wins. Spencer is more stubborn than Ryan is, but he’s also much more likely to talk, in general. Ryan slumps down in the seat and listens to road underneath the wheels, Spencer’s breathing next to him, the swish of the van’s windshield wipers. 

“It doesn’t even have to do with the band,” Ryan says, eventually. 

“Everything sort of has to do with the band,” Spencer says, reasonably. “In that if it’s affecting you, it affects us.”

Ryan shrugs. “That’s kind of unfair, don’t you think?” Ryan is well aware of the fact that Spencer and Brendon have to share a tight space with him, moods or no moods, but that doesn’t mean he has to share all his thoughts with them. Not if he doesn’t want to.

“Normally, I’d say yes, but it’s been more than a week, and if you don’t stop alternately sniping or completely ignoring us, one of us is going to punch you in the face. And it’s probably going to be me.” Spencer pauses, and Ryan waits for him to finish his thought. “Ryan, I try to get out of your way, be understanding or whatever, but it would be much easier if I had any idea what was setting you off.”

Ryan doesn’t respond immediately, because he really fucking doesn’t want to talk about it, but Spencer does have a point. As usual. Ryan sometimes hates the fact that Spencer functions mostly on logic – it makes him right a much larger percentage of the time than Ryan wants to admit.

“I’m pretty sure Pete and Mikey are dating, or something,” he says. “Or something,” he adds. “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. “That’s – okay.”

“Yeah.” Ryan looks out the window, and Spencer sighs.

“Okay,” Spencer says again, but he doesn’t move away.

+

They spend the 4th of July in Fresno, two thirds of the way through the California stretch of the tour. It’s a totally disgusting day, hot _and_ humid, but the show goes all right. When Ryan checks his phone after the set, he’s got a text from Mikey: _petes havin a 4th of july thing. fireworks etc. u comin?_

_sure_ , he texts back, and receives a smiley face in return - _:)_ \- about a minute and a half later. He doesn’t delete it.

+

Turns out that Pete’s bought a huge box of fireworks from some gas station 7-11 on the drive from Ventura to Fresno. There are way too many people milling around for Ryan to readily find anyone he knows. Brendon had said he’d probably show up at some point, maybe force Spencer to come with him, but Ryan had gone along without them. He steals a can of cheap beer – it’s too dark to read the label easily, and he doesn’t bother to try – from an open cooler. He figures if it’s open now, it’s probably up for grabs.

He mills around idly, waving at a few of the dudes from The Academy Is… and that guy from Midtown whose name he’s forgotten, but he doesn’t stay stationary for long enough to get trapped into a conversation with any of them.

“Hey! Ryan!” he hears over his shoulder, and he turns to see Gerard, of all people, trotting toward him.

“Hi,” Ryan says, and smiles. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Gerard makes a mock disgusted face, and Ryan tracks the way his eyes hesitate for a moment on the beer in Ryan’s hand, but he just says, “I normally wouldn’t be, probably, but there’s fireworks. Who can resist a good explosion or two?”

“Have they started yet?” Ryan asks, though he hasn’t heard anything. 

Gerard shakes his head. “But they’re lighting them over on the other side of the bus, since there’s more space. Let’s go watch.”

Ryan just nods and shrugs, letting Gerard lead the way. He finishes his beer in two long gulps and leaves it next to an overstuffed trashcan. He doesn’t really want to make Gerard any more uncomfortable than he probably is.

There’s a big expanse of empty parking lot on the other side of Fall Out Boy’s bus, a cluster of people around the fireworks piled on the ground. Ryan can just make out Pete and the rest of his band, Mikey, Frank, and Bill, but he can’t name anyone else. Gerard tugs him toward them, and Ryan lets him.

“Okay,” Pete’s saying, “everyone stand back, I totally don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Ryan can pick Frank’s giggle out of the crowd, and he says something like, “What, you usually do?”

Ryan watches the first one go up in a fountain of red sparks, and Gerard stops, watching it. Ryan stops next to him, but he’s watching the way the sparks illuminate their faces – Frank’s turned up to look, Bill’s arms crossed, expression half amused, Pete’s grin and the bangs in his eyes, Mikey watching Pete. Pete watching Mikey back.

“Huh,” Gerard says. “Pretty.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. The sparks die, but there’s a lot more where that came from.

+

They have the fifth off, between Fresno and Pomona, and Ryan breathes something like a sigh of relief. He stays out with Gerard until four AM, watching the fireworks, and then wandering idly among the buses.

“You’re having a hard time, aren’t you?” Gerard asks, when he stops to light a cigarette. They’re sitting on a hill off to one side of the venue. The cleaning crew has mostly picked up the beer cups, and discarded catsup packets, and other assorted litter from the show that day, leaving the grass green but slightly trampled. Ryan shrugs.

“Nothing I didn’t bring on myself,” he says, which is pretty much the truth. He’d never have done anything anyway, so he’s glad for Mikey. Or at least trying to pretend he is. He _likes_ Pete Wentz.

Gerard looks at him with pursed lips. It’s hard to make out the entirety of his expression given the lack of light, but Ryan is still pretty sure Gerard thinks he’s being stupid.

“That’s dumb,” Gerard says, and Ryan almost laughs.

“Yeah, probably,” Ryan says. 

+

In Marysville, on the 7th of July, Ryan goes to watch My Chemical Romance play. He hasn’t in awhile, though he knows their entire set. He’s not exactly surprised when he runs into Pete side stage.

“Do you watch them every day?” he asks, because he’s curious.

“Not always,” Pete says, “but more often than not. I was on their bus, anyway, so I thought I’d tag along.” Ryan nods, but doesn’t say anything. He loves watching My Chem play. They have an energy onstage that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to replicate. Gerard is some crazy possessed person, spitting filth and hope to a crowd of his own followers. It’s kind of amazing to watch.

Ryan’s standing close enough to feel the heat off of Pete’s body, and he’s glad that the day is slightly cooler; being this close to another person would be unbearable, otherwise. He’s taller than Pete is, but he often forgets this fact; Pete moves around too much. Even now, he’s silently twitching – stuffing his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Do you dislike me, Ryan?” Pete asks him three and a half songs later, and Ryan is startled both by the shift in tone, and the utter seriousness with which Pete says it.

“No,” Ryan says. “Pete, I don’t dislike you. Why?” He’s surprised that Pete would even care. They share some friends in common, maybe, but Pete doesn’t have to _like_ him. 

Pete shrugs. “I’d just rather you didn’t, is all.”

“Well, I don’t.” Even if he sometimes wishes that he did. It might make his life easier.

+

It’s the 8th. Their CD comes out in three days, and Ryan can’t seem to wrap his mind around it. Brendon’s taken to mentioning it onstage – “Remember to buy our CD, guys! It comes out on the 11th. You know you want to.” – which Ryan figures is probably a good idea. He’s just glad that they have the day off so that he can find the nearest Wal-Mart and buy his own copy.

“Are you excited?” Ryan asks Spencer, on the drive from Nampa, Idaho, to George, Washington. It’s a six-hour drive, and it’s Ryan’s turn in the driver’s seat. Brendon’s leaning against the window in the back, his headphones covering his ears, ignoring them completely. Spencer is sitting in the passenger seat, rifling through his iPod. They’d managed to find a tape adapter in a Radio Shack between Marysville and Nampa, which they’re all relieved about. They’d been running out of CDs.

“Hm?” Spencer asks, not looking up. He presses play, and settles the iPod into the cup holder, the tape adapter plugged into the headphones jack. He’s playing something vaguely R&B. Kanye, maybe. Ryan’s not really that good with Spencer’s music – Ryan tends to listen to the same four bands over and over without much change. It’s funny how two of those bands are now touring with them.

“For the CD release, I mean. Are you excited?”

Spencer thinks for a second, biting the inside of his lip. Ryan glances at him, but quickly looks back at the road. “Nervous,” Spencer says, eventually. “I’m pretty nervous about it, actually.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. At least he’s not the only one. “Me too.”

“I hope it sounds as good as we want it to,” Spencer says, and sinks down in his chair with a sigh.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, I guess.”

“Which sucks,” Spencer says, succinctly. Ryan laughs. Yeah, pretty much.

+

On the 10th, they’re in Saint Helens, Oregon. It’s cooler this far north, pleasant and mild. Ryan’s happy to not be sweating through his t-shirt. He still feels grimy, but that’s mostly because he hasn’t taken a shower in five days and his hair is greasy. His skin feels like it’s covered in a thin layer of dirt, which is probably the truth. All of these venues have dusty parking lots paved with gravel, and dry grass walked on by thousands of people.

At 11:00 AM, about three hours before they’re scheduled to go on, Ryan gets a text from Gerard. It’s odd, because he and Gerard don’t text. They almost never communicate by phone at all, actually, not on this tour, anyway – Gerard either finds Ryan backstage, or waits for Ryan to crash the My Chem bus. As far as he knows, Gerard avoids the phone as much as he can.

The text says, _bring your boys and come see our show today! you won’t want to miss it!_

He shows it to Brendon first, who makes a _huh_ noise and shrugs.

“Weird,” Brendon says. “But we might as well go, right?”

“Guess so,” Ryan says. He glances at the text again, and hits reply.

_okay then,_ he says. _c u there_.

+

My Chem goes on at noon, on the main stage. Standing backstage with Spencer and Brendon, Ryan can see the audience – hoards of girls and boys with thick makeup and dyed hair, holding up signs or talking to each other. He’s glad, for them, that the day isn’t very hot – sometimes he worries that they’re not drinking enough water, that they’ll get heat stroke or pass out. All that black clothing.

My Chem is onstage already, playing _Give ‘Em Hell, Kid_ , and they’re just as tight and energetic as ever.

“Hey, Ross, you made it!” Pete pulls up next to them, grinning. “I told Mikey you would.”

“I assume that means you have some idea what’s going on?” Ryan asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure I do. I even take partial credit for the idea.” Pete sounds sort of absurdly proud of himself. Ryan just shakes his head.

“I assume this has something to do with the CD release,” he says, but doesn’t form it as a question. He doesn’t actually want to ask what’s going to happen.

“C’mon, Pete, fill us in,” Brendon says, and grins. 

“I’m not telling you anything, Urie. You’ll find out in a few minutes.” Pete clasps Ryan’s shoulder and then lets his arm fall. Gerard is finishing up the song, now, and Ryan waits for the last chord and the last drum beat. “Actually, it looks like you won’t have to wait that long after all,” Pete adds. He laughs, dumb and loud and cheerful.

“Okay, listen up, motherfuckers,” Gerard is saying to the crowd. “I’ve got a special announcement for all you music lovers.” There are a few cheers from the crowd, and Ryan can see Frank leaning down over the edge of the stage, Mikey standing back by Bob’s drum riser. “You may have heard of a little band called Panic! At The Disco,” Gerard continues, and there are more screams from the audience. Not everyone cheers, but more than Ryan was expecting. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. “Well, their _debut album_ is coming out tomorrow.” There’s clear emphasis in Gerard’s voice, and Frank claps in front of his mic, the sound echoing across the stage. “And we thought, how should we commemorate such a momentous occasion?”

Gerard looks offstage, and grins at Ryan, tipping an imaginary hat. Ryan can see cameras, flash photography, going off in the audience. His eyes slide to Mikey, and he can’t make out Mikey’s expression from across the stage, but he’s looking at Ryan, hands pressed against his bass strings.

“I don’t know, Gerard. How should we?” Ray asks, leaning into his mic.

“This song’s called Camisado,” Gerard says, and counts them off.

+

“You _assholes_ ,” Brendon exclaims, laughing. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.”

“Dude, and ruin the surprise?” Frank is grinning, and Brendon is pretending to try to punch him, which Frank easily avoids.

“What did you think?” Mikey asks. Pete’s hanging around, talking to Gerard; Ryan can hear him laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan says, “that was probably the coolest thing I have ever seen.” He’s not even lying. Gerard’s voice gave the song a completely different tone – something angrier, coarser. It was fucking amazing.

“I thought you’d like it,” Mikey says, and smiles. Ryan can feel his heart clench, a little, but he smiles back.

“You guys are awesome.” He sort of means _thank you_ , and sort of means _Mikey, you are awesome_ , but he thinks it’s better to say neither of these things. They wouldn’t be appreciated, he’s sure.

+

They find a Wal-Mart between Saint Helens and Vancouver. Ryan’s never been to Canada before, not that it looks incredibly, or even noticeably, different. It’s not even any greener, like he’d been led to think.

“Ooh, there! Pull off the highway, dude,” Brendon says, and points to the giant megastore at the next exit.

Spencer rolls his eyes, but does as Brendon says. He’s more of an asshole when he’s nervous than any other time ever, probably, so Ryan cuts him some slack. He cuts all of them some slack.

One benefit of a van over a bus is that it’s much less conspicuous. They manage to park the van without hitting any other cars or causing damage to any property, and head inside.

It takes them some looking, actually, but they do find it. They’ve kept their faces off of it completely – paper cut out artwork on a burgundy background. _A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out_. Brian had asked about the title when they were recording, questioning, but Ryan hadn’t budged on it at all. If they were going to write an album, they were going to do it the way Ryan heard it in his head when he wrote the lyrics. The right way.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Spencer says, breathless, and reaches out to touch it, almost awed. Brendon’s holding onto it with tight fingers.

They split the cost, to say they’ve each bought part of it, and slide it into the CD slot. They listen to it for the rest of the drive on repeat.

Ryan wouldn’t exactly call it perfect, but he’d call it _right_ , and that’s fine with him.

+

Ryan gets a text from Brent at 8:34 PM that just says, _herd the new album it is awesum dude, u guys shuld b proud_.

He sends Brent a text that says, _check the thank-yous_ , because he’s pretty sure that he’s not the only one to leave Brent a note in the booklet. He’d said, “and thanks to Brent – you’ll always be part of this band, even when you’re not.”

He’d meant it.

+

He goes into My Chem’s bus on the 12th to ask Gerard if he can borrow a laptop. They’d both been onstage early, so it’s not likely Gerard’s going to be anywhere else. Ryan’s usually much more connected to the internet than he’s been on this tour, but there hadn’t really been the opportunity. The van doesn’t have internet the way that the buses tend to.

“Hey, Gerard?” he asks, pushing open the door, but Mikey’s in the lounge instead, curled up, tapping on his sidekick. “Oh,” Ryan says, his voice flat with his surprise. “Hi, Mikey.”

Mikey smiles, and nods, but doesn’t actually say anything. He jerks his chin toward the couch, as if inviting Ryan to sit, so Ryan does. He pretends not to notice the way that Mikey’s smile lights up his face – it’s goofy, happy in a way that Mikey often doesn’t look.

“Hey, do you have a laptop I can borrow for a second?” Ryan asks, after a moment. He tries not to watch the bend in Mikey’s shoulder as he types, the hair in his face when he looks down. “I, uh. Thought I should check the MySpace. Let people know the album is out.”

“Ah,” Mikey says, looking up. “Gee’s is on the table. He probably wouldn’t mind.”

Ryan almost wants to balk, say _I’ll come back later, ask him then_ , but he doesn’t actually want to leave. He doesn’t mind the silent company. He doesn’t get that very often. So, instead, he wordlessly boots up Gerard’s beat-up laptop, listening to the whirr of the fan, the clicking of the start up.

He logs onto MySpace, and almost drops the computer in his surprise. He holds onto it in his lap with white-knuckled hand, and stares at how many people have friended Panic! on MySpace since the last time he’d logged on. It’s been almost a month. This isn’t something he’s been expecting. Maybe he’d have checked more often if he had.

“Holy shit,” Ryan says. Mikey looks up from texting.

“What?” he asks, voice curious and almost cautious. Ryan doesn’t think, grabs Mikey’s wrist and tugs him until they can both see the computer screen. Mikey’s wrist is warm, and Ryan can feel the pulse against his fingers, steady, calming. He doesn’t want to pull away, but he makes himself loosen his fingers. Mikey’s close enough now that their thighs are pressed together, and Ryan carefully doesn’t lean in. He thinks about how Mikey and Pete must look together, happy and maybe in love, and somehow that makes it a little easier. “Awesome, dude,” Mikey says, with the New Jersey lilt to his voice, making everything sound slightly goofier.

“Yeah.” Ryan tears his focus away from the press of Mikey’s side against his, and sets about updating the blog.

+

In Montana on the 15th, Ryan gets a text from Pete that says, _true love for the believers. thank you_ , and then another shortly after that says _quoting the new blog, sry_. Ryan figures it’s a mass text, and doesn’t respond. He does, however, stop in a library during the drive to Salt Lake and log onto one of the free computers there so that he can read Pete’s blog.

_Listen to a song and time your heartbeat,_ he reads, and _Let it be okay to fall asleep slow tonight. Think about a good friend. Think about god. Think about death. Think about someone elses hand clumsily on your belt in the dark. Think it will be okay._

Ryan thinks _okay_ , thinks about Mikey’s hand on Pete’s belt, the way they’d laugh together, and he doesn’t think _it will be okay_. It will be, though, eventually. He knows it will.

+

Ryan gets a call from Brian on the 18th, a week after the record release. Brian’s not on the tour at the moment, though he’s been with them on and off all summer.

“Want the news?” Brian asks, in the gruff, amused way that he has.

“The news?” Ryan asks, but he’s been wondering about the numbers, not sure if he wants to know at all or not.

“It’s selling, Ryan. Better than we thought it would, even. That stunt that Gerard pulled probably didn’t hurt.”

“I think Pete said something, too,” Ryan says, trying not to think about what that means. _Good numbers_. He feels like he’s going numb from the relief of it.

“That didn’t hurt, either,” Brian says agreeably. He pauses, and Ryan listens to him breathe and tries to do the same. “Relax, Ryan, take a nap. You’re doing fine.”

+

By the time they get back to Ohio, Cleveland this time, even Ryan can tell that the crowds are bigger. They’re louder, more intense. In Denver, someone had screamed his name so loudly after _Tacks for Snacks_ that Ryan had been able to hear it over the cheering. He couldn’t pick her out of the audience, even though he’d tried. He wants to change something for them, change the show maybe, somehow. He’s not sure what to do, yet, though. Not sure what needs changing.

“What?” Brendon asks, probably because Ryan’s been sitting quiet and still behind the merch table. Even if that’s not so odd, Brendon knows that the fact that he’s not reading means he’s probably thinking about something in particular.

“I’m not sure, yet. I’ll tell you when I know, though.”

Brendon snorts, and then smiles widely at a teenage girl – she can’t be older than fourteen – stutters that she’d like a shirt, please.

“I know you will,” Brendon says, a few minutes later. “But the longer you think, the weirder these things end up being, Ross.”

“It’s gotten you this far, hasn’t it?” Ryan says, and raises his eyebrows. Brendon just laughs, and shakes his head.

+

Ryan doesn’t actually see Pete and Mikey kiss until the Minneapolis show on the 24th. He doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t. There’s less than a month left on the tour, at this point, more like three weeks, and Ryan can feel the way that things are starting to wrap themselves up. Not that it feels like an ending, yet, but more like fall – you can feel the winter coming on, even if it hasn’t arrived yet.

The thing is, Ryan doesn’t catch them on My Chem’s bus, and he certainly doesn’t go in Fall Out Boy’s bus without being strictly invited, so the fact that he catches it at all is simply that he’s in the fucking right place at the right time. Or maybe not.

They’re back by the buses, which means that there are no fans around to take pictures or interrupt, but Ryan’s not expecting to see them when he’s wandering aimlessly around the grounds. He’s between the Midtown and TAI… buses, kicking up dirt, and he hears Pete’s laugh, loud and raucous.

“What?” Pete’s saying, a joke in his voice, “I’m an asshole, that’s what you’re trying to say?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mikey says, arch and amused.

“Sorry, you know, I get – moody.” Pete sounds actually apologetic, and Ryan thinks that he really shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. He knows how Pete gets, too – withdrawn and quiet, sleepless in the way where it shows on his face. It hasn’t happened much this tour, so far. Ryan thinks this is actually to do mostly with Mikey, and the fact that he makes Pete happy.

Ryan continues on his walk, not exactly avoiding them, but not wanting to interrupt, either. Instead, they’re sitting on a picnic table, around the next corner. He doesn’t mean to look, but he does anyway. He’s really only got himself to blame. Pete is sitting on the table, his thigh by Mikey’s shoulder where he’s sitting on the bench below. Ryan can see the way that Pete bends down to kiss Mikey on the lips, slow and forceful. There’s something desperate about his body language – the arch of his back and the clench of his fingers against the green-painted wood of the table’s edge.

Ryan doesn’t stick around. He sees Mikey reach up for Pete’s face, and walks away as quietly as possible.

+

He checks Pete’s blog again, almost helplessly, on the 25th. They’re halfway between Minneapolis, Minnesota and Darien Center, New York, but they have the day off, so it’ll be a lot of driving, but not completely unbearable. Spencer hasn’t asked Ryan yet about his need to check the internet, and Ryan hopes it stays that way. This time, he sees only the line _Sometimes when you're feeling this blue the right smile can save you,_ signed by Peter.

He thinks about their kiss on the picnic table. He can see what Pete means.

+

In some ways, the show in Darien City is their best yet, in terms of their actual performance. Brendon sits on the edge of the stage during _Time to Dance_ and leads the audience in an enormous sing-along. Ryan looks over his shoulder at Spencer, who rolls his eyes. Brendon needs to connect to the audience more than Spencer does, and definitely more than Ryan does. They tend to indulge him, mostly because they know that it’s part of being a good front man.

Ryan looks out over the audience, takes in their upturned faces, thick eyeliner and colorful eye shadow. He wonders what he’d look like, with those piercings, that make-up, the haphazardly bleached and cut hair. He thinks about My Chem’s onstage uniforms, and wonders what that would be like.

His hair’s grown out since the tour started, bangs sliding into his eyes, hair tucked neatly behind his ears. He thinks that he could probably do with a change.

+

They have the 27th off, since the drive from Darien City to Quebec is about nine hours long, and they’re heading back up into Canada. Ryan wants to stop in Montreal for a few hours, at least, before they leave for the Quebec venue. They have a show just outside Montreal on the 29th, but there’s no way they’ll have the time to see the city at all. He doesn’t speak French very well – hasn’t spoken it since eleventh grade – but he doubts that it’ll matter much.

When he asks, Spencer says, “Yeah, sure, let’s stop for lunch.”

“Can we stop for a shower?” Brendon asks, and smells himself. “Seriously, I’m rank, dudes. I think I haven’t showered for at least a week and a half.”

“It takes probably six hours to get to Montreal from here,” Spencer says a few minutes later, consulting his cell phone and the battered atlas they’d bought before leaving for Columbus two months ago. It was definitely a smart purchase. Ryan can’t even count the number of times it’s come in handy. “So we could drive through the night, shower, sleep, get lunch when we wake up, and drive the remaining two hours tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

“Brilliant,” Brendon says. “But it’s Ryan’s turn to drive.”

“Whatever,” Ryan says, and rolls his eyes.

+

The shower is probably the most blissful moment of Ryan’s life for the last month, though having the privacy to jerk off, for once, is making a battle for the top spot. He slides his fingers around his cock and lets his head _thunk_ back against the shower’s slick plastic walls. He’s not loud, in general, but something about the fact that he could be, if he wanted, makes it better. He thinks about Mikey and Pete kissing, the desperation in Pete’s body-language, Mikey’s hand coming up to frame Pete’s face, and even though, later, he’ll wonder why he’s so fucked up, right now, he just curls his fingers on the down stroke, and comes against the lip of the tub. He watches the water rinse his come from the peach-colored plastic, and reaches for the shampoo, relishing the looseness in his limbs. He stays in the water until his fingers prune up and his skin turns red from the heat and pressure. One great thing about motels, even the cheap ones, is that they have much bigger hot water tanks than the sinks in truck stop bathrooms.

+

Ryan wakes up around noon, Spencer snoring softly against the pillow to his left. Brendon’s curled up, fetal, in the other bed, his head pillowed on his fists. The pillow has been shoved up against the headboard, out of his reach.

Ryan slides out of bed as quietly as possible, and pulls the jeans he’d left on the floor up over the boxers he’d put on last night after he got out of the shower. He takes his phone and room key from the dresser, pulls his notebook and pen from his backpack, and slips out, still sleep-mussed, into the walkway. He can see their van, across the parking lot, and the morning air is cool and dry. Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, and leans forward against the railing, watching a family of five – mother, father, and three young children – packing up their minivan. Probably on a family trip, or something. Ryan watches the father carefully strap a miniature television to one of the folded up seats with bungee cords. The two older children climb into the way back, while the mother holds the youngest, still a baby, and helps the father load their luggage. Sometimes Ryan wonders what he’d be like if his family was more like this one. But there’s no reason to think that those three kids have it any better than he had. He doesn’t know anything about them.

They’ll have to leave in a few hours, but Ryan doesn’t want to wake Spencer and Brendon, yet. Spencer’s phone alarm is set to go off at 1:00, and Ryan doesn’t mind having the time alone. He turns away from the packing family, sits cross-legged to the right of their room door, and opens his notebook to a blank page. He hasn’t been writing much, this tour. He figures he could use it.

+

Ryan ends up with a chorus and a verse to what will probably be two unrelated songs, and some unconnected lines that he likes, but don’t fit with anything else yet. He’s got half a melody by the time Brendon pokes his head outside, hair bed-rumpled and sticking out at awkward angles.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re out here.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan answers, and doesn’t look up. Brendon goes back inside, and, after a few minutes, Ryan sighs and stands. He’ll probably have to pack if they want to get lunch, soon.

They end up walking to a café a few blocks away, getting coffee and pastries – Ryan and Spencer get cinnamon scones, while Brendon gets an almond croissant – and packing up some coffeecake for later. They wander aimlessly down streets with French names they can’t pronounce, stopping to take pictures against street signs and old buildings. By the time they get back to the van, it’s close to four PM. They will be at the venue around dinnertime.

+

Ryan does his best not to think about the shower, his hand on his cock while he thought about Mikey and Pete. He doesn’t know how he could be any less appropriate, any less respectful of them, and he _likes_ them. Pete’s a good guy, and Mikey – Mikey is Mikey. Sharing Lucky Charms with him and not making him talk. 

+

By the time they get to the venue, there’s already partying going on all over the parking lot. Brendon’s driving, and Ryan’s sitting shotgun.

“Do you ever wish you partied more with the other guys on the tour?” Ryan asks, stuffing his iPod back into his backpack.

“Sometimes,” Brendon says, “but I hang out with Frank and Bob enough that it doesn’t matter. They drink, sometimes, but, y’know. Whatever.”

“I don’t,” Spencer says, and shrugs. “Not really, anyway.” Ryan thinks that Spencer might be too much of a control freak, most of the time. Ryan’s not that sure it’s good for him, really, but there’s not much that he can do about it. Spencer’s been more like this since Brent left, like he can hold the rest of them together if he tries hard enough. Ryan and Brendon aren’t going anywhere, but it’s not like telling Spencer that would do any good.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, watching Brendon park. He gets text from Pete, then, saying _where r u? havnt seen u in days._ “I don’t really mind the other guys,” he says, clicking the reply button with him thumb. “Most of them, anyway.”

+

It’s two nights later when Mikey and Pete finally corner him. They’re in Barrie, Ontario, and the night air is cool enough to warrant a hoodie. Ryan is walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He hasn’t been avoiding them, exactly, because avoiding them would mean not responding to their text messages. But Mikey’d asked the night before if he’d be around, and he said he wasn’t sure, maybe. It’s easier not to feel guilty when he can’t hear their voices.

“Yo, Ross,” Pete’s voice says from the darkness. “I can tell by that skinny ass that it’s you, even in the dark.” Ryan stops and turns. He supposes that he can’t actively walk away. If what he’s gathered about Pete so far this tour is anything to go on, Pete would just follow him around until he’s figured out why Ryan is avoiding him, which is pretty much the opposite of what Ryan wants at the moment. And if Pete’s around, Mikey probably is, too, and Ryan really doesn’t want to cause that much drama.

“Pete?” He can’t see Pete through the shadows cast by the buses. It’s a dark night, and most of the parking lot lights are off for the evening. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’d say at about your 2 o’clock, maybe ten paces.”

“You and your fucking treasure maps, Wentz,” Ryan hears Mikey say, not sounding anything close to annoyed, and Ryan trudges off into the darkness in what he hopes is generally the right direction. All he can see is the indistinct shape of a tree, and what might be a patch of grass.

“It could’ve been worse. I could’ve said ‘I’m the second star to your right’ and watched him fumble around in the dark.” Pete’s voice is definitely closer. Closer and amused.

“And what I’m doing right now is not fumbling around in the dark?”

“Nah,” Pete says, and Ryan can see what is probably his outline faintly in the darkness. He’s got a bottle in one hand, and he’s leaning back on his other palm, just under the tree. Mikey is stretched out on the grass to Pete’s left. “See, you found us.”

Ryan stops just in front of them. He can’t decide if he wants to sit, or not. The bottle in Pete’s hand is a mostly empty forty of Bud, and Ryan would guess that they recently left a party. They have that smell around them that means they’ve been stuck in confined quarters with lots of drunk people – alcohol and stale sweat. Ryan wonders how far gone they are. Mikey’s got a pretty high tolerance, but Ryan doesn’t know about Pete. For all he knows, they could’ve been drinking for hours already.

“Hear that?” Mikey asks, suddenly, pushing his head up off the ground to look at Pete.

“Hear what?” Pete asks. Ryan can see his wide grin, like he’s still game. His mouth catches the light better than the rest of his face, leaving him looking almost Cheshire-like in the dark.

“That silence. It’s the silence of Ryan Ross thinking too hard.” He laughs, and Ryan jolts a little, because. Well. It’s true.

“Oh.” Pete takes a long swallow from his bottle, and then holds it out to Ryan. “C’mon, Ross, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. What’re you thinking so hard about?”

Ryan sighs, but sits. He takes a sip from the bottle, and Bud really does taste like piss, but it’s not like he had to pay for it. He hands it back to Pete. “I’m not thinking about anything.”

“You’re lying,” Mikey says, in that clear voice that means, yes, he’s kind of drunk. Ryan’s only seen Mikey like this about three times. Two were on this tour, and he’s figured out that Mikey tends to talk more when he’s more intoxicated. He doesn’t seem to get particularly giggly, just talkative. Loose in the tongue.

“I promise, it’s not important,” Ryan says. The ground is cool under his legs, and the night is clear. He doesn’t really have anywhere he’d rather be.

“I’m not sure what you think actually _is_ important enough to mention, Ryan,” Mikey says. He’s staring at the sky again, head pillowed on his arms.

“Not this.” Mikey has a point in that Ryan, when given the chance, would rather remain silent, but. “Some things are important enough, but this isn’t one of them.”

“If you say so,” Mikey says, and Pete snorts.

“You’ve got yourself a skeptic, Ross,” he says. “Now, what would you say about helping me finish this forty? I think I’m almost at my limit.”

Pete passes Ryan the bottle, and Ryan lets him change the subject.

+

The rest of the tour is in the States. Their next show is in Pontiac, MI. Pontiac will only ever remind Ryan of the car company, though he’s not sure he could even name one kind of Pontiac. It’s windy but not rainy, so Ryan just pulls a hoodie on over his t-shirt, and leaves to go find Gerard. He has a few questions.

Gerard is, predictably, on My Chem’s bus. It’s not such a trek from Panic’s van. My Chem is on last on the main stage tonight, so they’ve got plenty of time to sleep and lounge around until they have to set up.

“You realize,” Gerard says, when he walks in, “that today is the last day of July? Tomorrow is August. That’s so weird.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought of it yet,” Ryan says, and realizes that this means there are only two weeks of the tour left. It seems like there should be more of it.

“Tours always seem that way to me,” Gerard says. “Y’know, like. They go on forever and last for no time at all.” Gerard is sitting in the kitchenette with a notebook and a felt-tip pen. Maybe he’d wanted a hard surface, or something. The notebook is flipped open near the end. Ryan wonders what Gerard has been drawing all tour. He slides into the seat across from Gerard, and watches the pen slide across white paper, slightly battered at the corners, where the sketchbook has been shoved into Gerard’s backpack. He can’t tell what the drawing is, upside down – some kind of figure – but he likes watching the varying thickness of the line.

“It’s like stasis,” Ryan says, and looks up to Gerard watching him. “What?”

Gerard shrugs with one shoulder, his other hand cross-hatching confidently. “Nothing. Mikey said you guys hung out last night.”

“Mm-hm,” Ryan says. “He and Pete –“ he almost says _were pretty drunk_ , but manages to swallow the words. He’s not even sure if Gerard would react badly – he has to be used to the fact that the people around him drink.

“Yeah. He woke up pretty hung over this morning. I got it,” Gerard says, returning his eyes to his paper. He doesn’t sound exactly bitter, but Ryan’s happy to change the subject, anyway.

“I wasn’t here about that, though,” he says. Gerard raises his eyebrows without looking up. “Wanna give me a haircut?”

Gerard laughs, surprised, and glances at him. “You sure you trust me with that kind of power?”

“Not like it won’t grow back. I’m sick of the curtain of hair.” He wraps a lock of hair around his fingers, annoyed with the way it’s almost touching his shoulders, straight and even.

“Okay, sure.” Gerard grins that infectious grin of his, and Ryan can’t help but smile back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

+

They use an extra top sheet as the smock to keep the hair off of his clothes. Ryan’s pretty sure that no one on the bus has changed or washed any of the bedding once in the past two months, but he’s not surprised that Brian would stock the bus with a few extras. Gerard has a sharp pair of scissors he normally uses for fabric, and they go outside so that they won’t have to clean up the hair. Ryan’s not sure that he knows anyone who owns a vacuum cleaner. They don’t shower, why would they have a vacuum?

Gerard’s only just started when Mikey shows up, eating a hotdog covered in catsup and relish. Pete’s not with him, but Ryan supposes that they’re not actually surgically attached. Mikey stops in front of the picnic table Ryan and Gerard are sitting on, and takes another bite. 

When he swallows, he asks, “Haircut?” like it’s not obvious.

Ryan doesn’t nod; he just makes a noise of assent instead. He’s enjoying watching the hair fall in long, straight locks.

“You should cut it a little shorter on the sides,” Mikey says, and Gerard stops cutting. Mikey reaches over and threads his fingers into Ryan’s hair, pulling at it a little. Ryan has to stop himself from making an embarrassing noise. He didn’t think that was something he liked so much. “Yeah, like, short on the sides, but a little longer on top?”

“That could look good,” Gerard says, contemplative, and Ryan can imagine the way he’s cocking his head to the side. Ryan’s kind of fine with being one of Gerard’s art projects. It’s already gotten him pretty far in life, all things considered.

“It would look good,” Mikey says. “Hot.” He stuffs the last bite of his hotdog in his mouth, and balls the paper wrapper up in his hand.

Ryan doesn’t say anything, just watches Mikey watch Gerard.

+

After the haircut, the eyeliner is Gerard’s idea. Ryan isn’t at all surprised, considering their stage show. Ryan had actually been considering asking Gerard if he could try it out, but hadn’t worked up the balls yet. Luckily, Gerard thought of it on his own.

“You should let me show you what it looks like,” Gerard says, his voice high and excited. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t have a huge fucking variety of colors and shades.”

Mikey snorts. Ryan hasn’t seen himself in the mirror yet, but he’d taken Mikey’s nod of approval as a good sign. Mikey’s eyes had lingered on his face in a way he’s pretty sure he’s not making up. He scrubs his hands through his newly cut hair. He loves the way it feels under his fingertips. Soft, though still pretty dirty. It’s been a few days since his last shower.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, finally, and Mikey laughs.

“You probably shouldn’t have said that.” He’s standing with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hip cocked to the side, glasses falling slightly down his nose. He looks tired out, bags under his eyes, lips chapped. Probably, he’s still a little hung over.

“You can supervise,” Ryan says, and tries not to sound wheedling. Mikey looks at him for a long moment, and then shrugs.

“Sure. I said I’d meet Pete in a bit, but I don’t think I want to miss this.” Ryan smiles before he can help it, and glances back at Gerard. Gerard is giving him an odd, contemplative look, but shakes himself out of it, smiling again.

“I’ll get some supplies. No mirrors until I’m finished, though,” he warns, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Whatever you say, Gerard.”

Gerard laughs, and goes back into the bus, leaving Mikey and Ryan alone in the sun. Mikey doesn’t say anything, but he sits next to Ryan on the table, kicking his feet idly against the bench. Ryan closes his eyes against the sun and tilts his head back, catching the warmth on his face.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, until Ryan hears the _bang_ of the bus door slamming shut, and opens his eyes again. Mikey’s looking at him, face blank; Ryan can’t tell what he’s thinking. He glances at Gerard in order to have something else to do, and finds him holding an entire toolbox filled with makeup in his hands.

Gerard must see something in the look on Ryan’s face, because he draws up, slightly defensive, and says, “What? Better to be prepared than not, right?”

“Sure,” Ryan says, watching Gerard set the toolbox on the table and start opening compartments. Finally he pulls out a black eyeliner pencil, turns to Ryan, and tells him to close his eyes.

+

When Gerard’s done, he gives Ryan a handheld mirror. “Here,” he says, “take a look.”

Ryan holds the mirror up to his face and watches his own eyes widen in surprise. His hair is short and spiky, sticking up like a crest in the center of his scalp, but short on the sides. It’s a little messy, obviously, but it looks good. It makes him look sharper in a way that he likes. The makeup is actually pretty subtle, for Gerard. The eyeliner is thick and black, but it makes his eyes look lighter and bigger.

“Huh,” he says, and hands the mirror back.

“You look good,” Gerard says, grinning wide and enthusiastic. “Right, Mikey?” Gerard turns to Mikey, who is still sitting silently next to Ryan. Ryan is close enough to feel the heat coming off of Mikey’s body, so he can also feel it when Mikey shifts subtly. He looks at Mikey, who is silent for a long time. His eyes trail over Ryan’s face and Ryan has to fight to keep from blushing. Luckily, he doesn’t have the kind of complexion to blush easily.

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “You look really good.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says, instead of the _you really think so?_ that he wants to say. He’s insecure, he knows, but he’s smart enough to not express it very often.

+

Ryan doesn’t know anything about taking off makeup – he’s worn it before, sure, a few times, but he still doesn’t know much about the ins and outs of cosmetics. Which is probably why he sleeps without washing his face, and wakes up still wearing thick, and now slightly smeared, eyeliner. He doesn’t think it looks bad, though, when he checks himself out in the van’s rearview mirror – smeared makeup is kind of a look, too. Gerard had pressed an eyeliner pencil into his hand when he left and told him that he should keep wearing it. Ryan’s not sure if he’ll keep it up or not – it kind of depends on the reception he gets from fans. 

The drive the night before had taken something like five and a half hours, and Ryan spent most of it driving, or staying awake with Spencer. He’s still half-asleep at 11:30 when they go onstage, trying to remember not to rub at his eyes, even if they do still feel partially glued shut. He hates the days they play early.

Before they get onstage, Brendon catches his wrist. “I meant to ask last night,” he says, “but what’s with the makeup?”

Ryan shrugs. “Gerard did it.”

It’s apparently enough of an answer for Brendon, who nods as he slips his bass on over his head. “Kay. The haircut looks good, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says, and then they head out onto the stage. Spencer’s already sitting behind his drum kit, and he taps his drum sticks together as if to rush them. Ryan slings his guitar over his shoulder and listens to the crowd cheer as Brendon introduces them.

He wasn’t exactly expecting a huge blowout from Spencer and Brendon. He’s still kind of relieved that they’re both so blasé about it, though.

+

“Hey,” Brendon says, that night. “Brent wants to see the haircut.”

“You told him about it?” Ryan asks, turning in his seat to look at Brendon. 

Brendon shrugs, and smiles. “He asked for an update. I’m a very detailed updater.” Ryan laughs before he can help it, and Brendon looks pleased with himself. Ryan hands Brendon his phone and poses for a picture, pouting dramatically. He texts the resulting photo to Brent, though he’s not sure where Brent is at the moment, or what time it is there. _the new haircut_ , he adds in the text box, and doesn’t expect a reply.

Two minutes later, though, he gets a text from Brent saying, _thats a hell of a new look, ry_.

_i know_ , Ryan says. _where r u?_

_home sweet home_ , Brent texts in reply. _when r u back?_

Ryan has to ask Brendon – he’s not even entirely certain what day of the week it is, anymore. Brendon laughs at him, but this is nothing new. _two weeks. ill c u then_.

Ryan stuffs his phone into his pocket, and thinks about Brent’s bedroom, the comforter covered in trains, the basketball posters, and it seems infinitely far away from where he is now. But Brent’s off tour, and Panic will be too soon enough. Ryan will be happy to see Brent, but he’s not looking forward to going home.

+

They drive from Pennsylvania to Georgia, which takes about eleven hours. The show isn’t until the 3rd, making the 2nd of August their last day off until the end of the tour. The rest of Warped is on the East Coast, and thus the venues are much closer together. Still, Ryan’s looking forward to washing his hair. He wonders if the cut will look any different when his hair is clean.

“Last day off,” Ryan says, curled up in the passenger seat. Brendon’s driving, so they’re listening to sixties music that Ryan can’t place. He really doesn’t know much about music history.

“What’re we even going to do after this is over?” Brendon asks, though he doesn’t seem particularly worried.

“I have no idea,” Ryan says. “Take some time off?” He’s not looking forward to being home, but it’s not like they have anything else lined up at the moment.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I guess.” He doesn’t sound any happier about it than Ryan is. Ryan knows that Spencer will probably be very happy to see his parents and his sisters, but Ryan’s just happy not to be the only one dreading the end.

+

Ryan spends most of the day in Atlanta hanging out in the merch tent. It’s fucking hot, and humid, and Ryan’s glad for the shade and the water cooler. He’s had a lot of compliments on the haircut, which he appreciates. He even managed to apply his own eyeliner without it looking completely ridiculous. It’s lighter than when Gerard applied it, but still noticeable.

He takes a picture with a girl who drove all the way from Albany, Georgia to see them, which is possibly the craziest thing he’s ever heard. He doesn’t know where Albany is, but the girl assures him that it’s more than a three hour drive. He mentally boggles at the idea that anyone would drive that far specifically to see them, but takes a picture with her and tries to smile convincingly. She beams when she thanks him, and holds out a sharpie and her copy of their CD. Ryan’s not sure he’ll ever get tired of people buying the record, listening to it, liking it.

Mikey shows up just as she’s leaving, and stops next to Ryan, watching the girl walk away.

“Do you ever get used to that?” Ryan asks, and Mikey shrugs.

“I have to deal with it less than Gerard or Frank. But not really.”

Mikey still looks tired. They sit in the lawn chairs behind the table, and Ryan hands Mikey a paper cup filled with water.

“Thanks.” Mikey swallows the whole thing in one long gulp, and Ryan can’t help watching the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“You okay?” he asks, not expecting a straight answer, but feeling he should ask anyway.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mikey says, and Ryan’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s Pete. _hav u seen mieky?_ , he asks, and Ryan looks over at Mikey.

“It’s Pete,” he says. He wonders why Pete would ask him about Mikey’s whereabouts. 

“Don’t tell him I’m here,” Mikey says, voice thin. His closes his eyes for a second, then opens them and sighs. “I’ll – find him later. I will. Just.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ryan agrees. _not recently_ he types to Pete, and feels immediately guilty about it. He wonders what he’s getting himself into the middle of.

“Thank you,” Mikey says, and sounds some mixture of relieved, guilty, and exhausted.

“Want to get some lunch?” Ryan asks, and is rewarded when Mikey smiles a little.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”

+

In Jacksonville it’s too hot to be outside or in the van, even with the a/c on, so Ryan sits on the bus with Frank and Gerard and watches some old slasher film – Nightmare on Elm Street? Friday the 13th? One of those.

“I fucking love this part,” Frank says, leaning forward.

“You say that every time.” There’s a complaint in Gerard’s voice, but he’s not even looking at the screen. Ryan snorts, but doesn’t actually have much of an idea what’s going on. He keeps zoning out, thinking about Mikey. Finally, he decides to text him.

_were watchin some horror movie. ur missin out, dude_.

He can hear Mikey’s phone buzzing from inside his empty bunk. Ryan wonders where Mikey’s gone without it.

+

The drive to St. Petersburg is about four hours, but that’s less than they’re used to, so they stick around later than usual. Spencer and Ryan wander around the buses, walking in silence.

It’s still hot, but cooler since the sun went down. The heat’s more humid than Vegas, but almost everywhere on the east coast is – it comes from being near the water, he supposes. Plus, Florida has the wetlands to think about.

“Ten days,” Spencer says. “Have it marked on your calendar, yet?” Spencer’s wrist brushes against Ryan’s arm, and Ryan’s at ease, here, walking next to Spencer. It’s what they’ve spent most of their lives doing – following each other.

“I’ve been thinking about it, believe me,” Ryan says. He rolls his eyes, even though Spencer can’t see him. “I’m not sure if I’m dreading it or looking forward to it.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, and then they trail off into silence for a while. Eventually, Spencer speaks up again, voice soft against the faint breeze. “Was the haircut about anything in particular?”

Ryan thinks about it for a few moments. Not long enough for Spencer to think he’s avoiding the question, but enough to give himself time to actually think it through. “I needed a change.” He shrugs, and listens for Spencer’s low noise of assent. “I’ve spent this whole tour being one thing, so I thought I’d try something new.”

“Fair enough,” Spencer says. “Do you think Brendon’s saved any of those slim jims?”

Ryan smiles. “No, probably not.”

+

In Pompano Beach, Ryan stands side stage to watch Fall Out Boy. Pete looks like shit, deep circles under his eyes. Mikey’s onstage playing bass for them, so that Pete can launch himself into the audience the way that he likes, but Pete doesn’t really connect with anyone onstage – not Mikey, not Patrick – just concentrates on the audience, fixated.

Ryan can see the worried looks Mikey is sending Pete. He’s not a complete idiot. He knows that something is going on. It’s just not enough of his business for him to ask, he thinks – that’s what Pete’s band is for. That’s what My Chem is for.

+

They play at 2:00 PM, and then Brendon asks if they can go to the beach. He says, “Well, it’s called fucking Pompano Beach, there’s gotta be a beach around here somewhere, right?” Ryan doesn’t mind going. According to the map, it’s a straight shot to the ocean – they just take East Atlantic Boulevard until they hit the sand. Ryan’s not sure if he’ll swim, but he’s looking forward to smelling the saltwater and sand. Beach grasses. It’s a different kind of dirty than touring – dirt versus sand. 

Spencer drives, and it takes them fifteen minutes. The beach is covered in hotels and condos, but Spencer finds a place to park, and they all take off their shoes, walking barefoot down the steep dunes, toes in the sand.

Ryan stops on the edge of the waves, water lapping up over his feet and covering them with wet sand. He takes a picture of his toes, burrowed into the ground, and texts it to Mikey and Pete.

_wish u were here_ , he says, because the picture reminds him of a vacation greeting card, and it’s also true.

_wish i was there, too_ , Mikey texts in response. Pete doesn’t say anything.

+

Gerard’s the one who inadvertently tells him the next day, probably because he assumes that Ryan already knows. Maybe he should know, but Ryan hardly ever asks, so he doesn’t.

He and Brendon are on the My Chem bus, and Brendon’s talking to Bob about how much he wishes they had time to stop at Universal Studios so he could go on the E.T. ride. Apparently he went when he was a kid, and it terrified him, so he wants to go again now that he’s older and wiser. Bob’s spent most of the conversation vaguely rolling his eyes and smiling, but Ryan can kind of see the logic.

Gerard’s fucking around with his makeup for the show, and Ryan glances down at the sketchbook open on the counter. It’s open to a sketch of Mikey, bent over his sidekick, his glasses falling down to the end of his nose. He looks sad or pissed off in that muted Mikey way, so Ryan can’t help but ask.

“When’d you draw this?”

Gerard looks up from where he’s spreading eyeshadow all over his face. “Oh, uh, like. Two nights ago, maybe?” He pauses, considering. “I keep losing track of the days. That was the day he talked things out with Pete. He’s been moping since then.”

Ryan tries not to think about what that means, exactly. “Huh,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. Gerard glances up at him, and his expression is surprised, like, _what, you didn’t know?_ And even if Ryan’s still not sure what he doesn’t know, he thinks that he should.

+

The next time Ryan sees Mikey it’s that evening, after My Chem has finished their set, and Mikey’s a little drunk. Ryan’s sitting outside of the van, cross-legged, waiting for Spencer and Brendon to come back from eating so that they can leave. Mikey must be wandering aimlessly, because he looks as surprised to see Ryan as Ryan is to see him. He hesitates, wavering, as if he’s not sure if he should stop, but the moment of indecision passes, and he walks the few steps closer, folding gracefully into a sitting position.

“Hi,” Ryan says, and Mikey smiles, a little off kilter.

“Hi,” he says, and Ryan can smell the alcohol on him. He doesn’t mind, exactly, but it worries him – this is the first time he’s seen Mikey drunk, alone, without a party somewhere in the vicinity. Mikey leans back on his hands, posture relaxed and tense simultaneously, like he’s physically relaxed, but wound tightly mentally. “Just ask,” he says, after a silent moment. This is the reason Ryan never knows how to act when Mikey’s drunk – Mikey’s much more likely to say the things he’d otherwise keep to himself.

“I –” Ryan starts, about to say _I’m not sure what you’re talking about_ , or _I don’t want to bother you_ , but Mikey gives him a withering look, and he stops. “What’s going on?” he asks. “With you and Pete, I mean.”

Mikey doesn’t say anything immediately. He bites his lip, and Ryan knows that he doesn’t want to answer. As he’s about to retract the question altogether, though, Mikey starts talking.

“Pete suggested we stop sleeping together,” Mikey says, voice flat. “That he’s tired of being convenient. He likes me, and I’m a good friend but, and I quote, he’s ‘not going to put up with my shit, either.’” Mikey punctuates this with ironic finger quotes on either side of his head. He looks away, down at the dying grass, and Ryan sucks in his breath through his teeth.

“What does that mean, exactly?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

“Fuck if I know,” Mikey says, and there’s a bitterness in his voice. “I asked him that, and he said some mysterious bullshit about how I don’t like him enough, and it would be better off for both of us if we weren’t fucking.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, completely out of his emotional depth. He’s caught between hope and anxiety, and he doesn’t know what to do with either. “I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“No, whatever, it’s – I’ll be fine,” Mikey says, and bites his lip again. “Could I – do you mind if I ride with you guys? I don’t want Gerard to see me like this.” He snorts. “He puts up with enough of my shit.”

“I – yeah, sure,” Ryan says, surprised again. “You’re welcome any time.”

+

It takes Ryan two days to text Pete about it, mostly because he’s not sure he wants a real answer. Mikey drives with them just the once, and it’s fine – he falls asleep halfway there, slumped against the window, glasses pressing into the side of his face.

Virginia is fucking hot in August – well into the 90s, which isn’t such a big deal, but it’s laborious while performing. Ryan hasn’t seen Mikey since they got to Charlotte, except onstage. It’s not that weird, but Ryan feels like it should be.

He waits until the end of Fall Out Boy’s set and then texts Pete.

_whyd u break up w mikey?_ he sends, because he doesn’t know how else to say it. Just sending the text makes his heart pound, anxiety that he’s pushing himself into a situation in which he’s not welcome. But it only takes Pete a minute and a half to text him back.

_im not completely blind & selfish ross_, Pete’s text says. Ryan’s not sure what to make of it.

_what does that mean?_

_im not letting him use me as a buffer anymore_ , is Pete’s response.

It’s only slightly more helpful than the first was.

+

Bristow, Virginia marks their sixth to last show. They’re all exhausted from driving and performing and sleeping without beds. Ryan can see the telltale snippiness between them that marks too much time spent in close quarters. It’s been more than two months without a break. They all deserve it.

They’re lucky it doesn’t affect the shows – Brendon is just as outgoing and sunny onstage, even if, just moments before, he’d been threatening to rearrange Spencer’s face if he didn’t stop air drumming.

Ryan wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and glances back at Spencer, who is biting his lip as he keeps time. Five shows left. They can make it.

+

Ryan runs into a party the next night, outside Scranton, and Pete’s already obviously drunk.

“Ross!” he calls out, loud, raucous like he always is, his grin wide and white. He doesn’t seem so worse for wear, at the moment, but, looking at him, Ryan feels a stab in his gut, and it’s not like it’s his fault they broke up, but. He feels almost like it is, anyway.

“Hey, Pete,” Ryan says, much more quietly. Pete’s leaning back against his bus, slightly apart from the rest of the group – Ryan can make out Joe and Patrick and Carden off to the right, laughing loudly. “Why’re you over here by yourself?”

“Waiting for you, obviously,” Pete says. He laughs again, just the slightest tinge of bitterness. Ryan stops in front of him, and Pete reaches out, slinging an arm around Ryan’s neck. 

Ryan makes a surprised noise, but lets himself be pulled up snug to Pete’s side.

“Pete?” he asks, and Pete looks slightly up at him. “Are you okay?”

“Ross,” Pete says, rolling his eyes, “I’m fine. Peachy keen, even.” He pauses, and Ryan can’t see his face very well, but his grin turns a little more real. He laughs. “Or I will be, anyway. I promise. You have my blessing, little dude.” Pete’s voice is amused, fond. His fingers are wrapped up in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt, and Ryan can smell the beer on his breath. Ryan believes him, though he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s just that Pete’s been through much worse and come out alive. 

“Sure.” It’s not that he doesn’t know what Pete is talking about, it’s that he’s not sure why it matters. It’s not exactly Ryan’s decision, entirely.

“Whatever,” Pete says, shaking his head and releasing Ryan. “Want a beer?”

Ryan shakes his head, and Pete doesn’t move. Ryan doesn’t, either, enjoying the warmth from Pete’s arm against his side.

“Me neither.” Pete laughs. “Just don’t wuss out, Ross.”

“I’ll try not to,” Ryan says. He’s not entirely sure why that would matter anyway.

+

Ryan hates New Jersey, even _if_ four fifths of My Chem were born there. They always get lost in New Jersey. It takes them an hour and a half longer than it should to get to Camden, and Ryan’s stewing in his own annoyance by the time they make it.

He ends up walking among the merch tents, trying not to make eye contact or talk to anyone. He scrubs a hand through his hair and knows that it’s probably sticking up in all sorts of odd angles, but he doesn’t care.

He finds a quiet spot by the parking lot, eventually, and sits on the curb, wrapping his arms around his knees. Sometimes he thinks about the way Mikey had looked at him after he got his haircut, the way Mikey’s eyes lingered, how close he’d sat, and Ryan thinks that if he wanted to do something about it, he could. He can see the signs. The problem is that he actually likes Pete, and he _knows_ that Mikey does, and so there’s no point. There’s no point in even thinking about it.

He shifts until he can lean back on his hands, palms against the rough concrete. 

He kind of wants to send Mikey a text message, _do u like me? circle y or n_ , but this isn’t grade school, and it’s never that easy.

+

Ryan happens to glance side stage when they’re performing, and Mikey’s standing with Frank, watching them. He’s got his arms crossed, chin sunk down to his chest. He occasionally leans down to yell something at Frank over the sound of the amps. Ryan tries not to let it distract him, since all of the members of My Chem have come to watch them at one point or another, Mikey more often than the rest of them. He’s not quite sure he manages it.

The day is hot, and he can feel the sweat collecting at his hairline and in the corners of his eyes. He wonders if his makeup is smearing. He still thinks that they’re better than they’ve ever been – more confident, more talkative. Brendon even gets Spencer to talk, sometimes.

As they pile offstage, the crowd still cheering, Mikey wraps a hand tight around Ryan wrist and says, “Good job.” Frank, next to him, rolls his eyes a little, and wanders over to Brendon.

Ryan doesn’t look at Mikey’s hand on his wrist, though he’s sure that Mikey can feel the way his heart is beating in the pulse under his skin. He’s lucky that it could be as much from the performance as from the touch.

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else, but Mikey tugs on his wrist before letting go.

“Want to get dinner?” Mikey’s voice is inscrutable, and Ryan wishes he could ever understand what Mikey was thinking.

“Sure,” Ryan says. “I have to help break down first, though.”

“I can wait,” Mikey says, and smiles a little. Ryan suspects that something is up, but he decides that it’s better not to think about it.

+

They end up eating cheeseburgers from one of the food stands closest to the backstage entrance. A few people glance at them, but no one bothers them, and they take their food back to the bus area. Mikey’s almost finished his burger by the time they sit down. Ryan waits, though, so that he can put catsup on his before eating it. The cheese is congealed and yellow, pretty much what Ryan expects from fairground food. It still tastes fine.

“What’s up?” he asks, when it becomes clear that Mikey isn’t going to start the conversation. Mikey doesn’t answer for a long time. He finishes chewing the last bite of his burger, and then balls the wrapper up between his hands.

“If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?” Mikey’s voice is quiet, serious, and Ryan can feel the anxiety collecting in the pit of his stomach. If Mikey’s bothering to ask, Ryan’s probably not going to like it.

“Yeah.” Ryan nods, pulling at the grass with his free hand.

“Okay,” Mikey says, and then pauses, like he’s not sure how to formulate the question. “Do you have a crush on me?”

“I –” Ryan starts. He’s not surprised; he can’t be. They’ve been dancing around this all summer and even he’s figured it out by now. Maybe for longer than that, he’s not sure. Pete complicated things, but didn’t change them. Not for Ryan, anyway. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Mikey’s voice is almost faint, and Ryan is still watching his face, the way he bites his lip, glasses sliding down his nose. Mikey presses a hand against the side of Ryan’s face, palm and fingers warm and slightly sticky. Ryan leans into the touch before he can help it, and Mikey swallows.

“I can’t help it,” Ryan says, and Mikey’s fingers are moving, sliding up into his hair and tugging gently. Ryan wants Mikey to kiss him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mikey asks, and he’s leaning in, but Ryan keeps still.

“When?” Ryan says, and shrugs as best he can. “What could I have said?”

“You’re such a dumbfuck,” Mikey says. “Pete, of all people, shouldn’t have to help you out.”

“I know,” Ryan says, and then Mikey kisses him. His lips slide, wet and soft, against Ryan’s mouth, and it’s exactly what Ryan thought it would be. Mikey’s fingers tug on his hair, but it’s Ryan who pulls away.

“Why did you do that?” Ryan resists the impulse to touch his fingers to his lips like some fourteen-year-old, and instead looks down at his crossed feet.

“Because I wanted to,” Mikey says. He curls his fingers into the cuffs of his hoodie, and sighs. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted that for six months. I’m tired of waiting.”

“What about Pete?” Ryan’s not sure what he wants to hear, but he still has to ask.

“I don’t know,” Mikey says, looking away. “Pete – he’s a great friend. He’s awesome, and he was there. Maybe he was right to break it off.” Mikey pauses, like he’s collecting his thoughts. “But I could – I’ve wanted you longer. Is that enough?”

Half of Ryan wants to say, _yes, it’s enough_ , and pull Mikey to him, but the other half wants to say _what would you have done if he hadn’t broken it off?_. He’s caught between having what he wants and wondering if it’s really his at all.

“I’ll give you some time,” Mikey says, and stands. Ryan doesn’t say anything, just watches Mikey walk away. Then he throws his wrapper in the trashcan, and goes to find Spencer.

+

Spencer doesn’t ask questions, just lets Ryan lean his head on his shoulder. Ryan has to think, because – he knows that Mikey wants him, but he also knows that Mikey likes Pete, that Mikey’s been sleeping with Pete for two months, and that ended just over a week ago. The summer’s almost over. He doesn’t want to be a rebound.

This is why he tries to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re not going to tell me about it, are you?” Spencer asks, eventually.

“Maybe later,” Ryan says, and listens to Spencer sigh.

“Okay,” Spencer says, and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

+

Ryan doesn’t see anyone from My Chem the next day. He doubts that Mikey is going to talk to him again unless he initiates it, and Ryan has to figure himself out, first, before he does that.

_would mikey have ended it if u hadnt?_ Ryan asks Pete sometime mid-morning. Mostly because he can’t help wondering, and Pete would know if anyone would.

_y eventually,_ Pete says, and then shortly after, _or id kill him prob. i didnt break it off just 4 u so dont get cocky_.

_thanx pete_ , Ryan texts back, and he feels slightly better.

_np_ , Pete says, _as long as u know u have 2 keep in touch_.

_i will_. Ryan wonders how he got to be friends with Pete Wentz. He’s pretty sure it was mostly not his own doing, but he can’t say that he minds.

+

Ryan’s taken to painting more elaborately on his face when he goes onstage – still in black, but with swirls coming out from the corners of his eyes, or, once, wings. It works for Gerard, and Ryan likes it. It gives him more of a routine before the performance. Even with whatever drama is going on in his personal life, he’s going to do his best for the performances.

Their third to last show is in New York, and Brendon walks over to Ryan onstage, that swagger he only has when he’s performing. Ryan looks down at his guitar, and starts when he feels Brendon’s fingers on his face. Brendon slides his thumb just in the corner of Ryan’s left eye, careful not to smudge, singing the words Ryan wrote on the floor of his bedroom - _can’t take the kid from the fight, take the fight from the kid_ \- and then spinning away.

Ryan takes a deep breath, and listens to the girls cheer.

+

They hit traffic on their way back through New Jersey, and it takes them forty minutes longer than it otherwise would. Ryan leans against the window and watches Brendon and Spencer talk about hip hop. Brendon’s got the most diverse musical taste out of the three of them, something Ryan can only be grateful for. 

In a lull, he asks, “What was that, today, Brendon?”

“Hm?” Brendon asks, looking over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. Ryan just tucks a finger in the corner of his left eye, and raises his eyebrows right back.

Brendon pauses, and the shrugs. “I dunno.” 

Ryan knows from writing with Brendon that he’s not telling the truth, yet, but he will. He always does. He just needs to work himself up to it.

+

Ryan doesn’t sleep much, that night. Instead, he spends the sleepless hours staring at the ceiling of the van, listening to Blink-182 on his iPod and trying not to think about how Mikey’s mouth had felt on his, Mikey’s hands in his hair. He’s certain that he wants to feel that again, he’s just not sure if it’s worth the potential heartbreak later.

+

The next day, in Old Bridge, Ryan’s carefully smudging his eyeliner when Brendon comes to stand next to him, eyes tracking Ryan’s hands in the mirror. 

“It just really cool,” Brendon says, eventually, and Ryan raises his eyebrows in the mirror. “No, really. I – wanna practice on me?”

“You can’t practice on me,” Spencer says from behind them, tapping his drumsticks against his knees. 

Ryan turns to look at Brendon. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and exhales loudly through his mouth like he does when he’s nervous.

“Okay,” Ryan says, and when Brendon smiles it’s huge and broad. Ryan wasn’t expecting this to be a thing for them, but he doesn’t mind it, either. He’s going to need more makeup, though.

+

He finds Gerard smoking outside My Chem’s bus later that day, and Gerard raises his eyebrows.

“I almost thought you were avoiding us,” Gerard says as he exhales smoke. The wisps of it curl around his head and dissipate.

Ryan almost says, _I’m not avoiding_ you _, anyway_ , but decides against it. Gerard probably knows at least some of what’s been going on. Mikey has a hard time keeping things from him. Ryan shrugs, instead.

“I have a favor to ask.” Ryan watches Gerard take another drag, and then stub out his cigarette.

“What is it?” Gerard’s voice is a little colder than Ryan’s used to, and Ryan winces. He doesn’t want to cause drama.

“Can I borrow some of your makeup? Some colored eyeshadow, maybe?”

“What do you want to use it for?”

“The show. You’ll see. Just come watch the last one side stage. I have a plan.”

“Does this plan involve not being a dick to my brother?” Gerard’s looking down at his beat-up combat boots, and Ryan bites his lip.

“I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just – I need to figure myself out.” Ryan’s hoping that Gerard can understand. Gerard is almost as important to him as Mikey is.

Gerard sighs. “I know you’re not. You should see him, though, Ryan. Whatever. You’re welcome to use whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” Ryan says quietly. He leaves before he can cause any more problems.

+

The last day, in Northampton, Massachusetts, Panic goes on an hour before My Chem.

“You have to let me do this,” Ryan says, and Spencer scowls.

“I don’t want to look dumb,” he says, and then snorts. “Whatever. Fuck it. If it looks horrible, I’m never letting you do it again.”

“He did an okay job on me,” Brendon says, still looking at himself in Gerard’s handheld mirror. Spencer sighs, but doesn’t dispute it.

“Thank you, Spence.” Ryan means it. If this looks good, it could be a whole thing. He wants to be dramatic. He wants to be something different.

“Anything to make you stop moping, Jesus.”

Ryan can’t help but grin.

+

Ryan’s heart is fluttering in his chest when they take the stage. He can hear the crowd cheering, and he hopes that he doesn’t look completely ridiculous – birds painted in black and primary colors across his cheekbones and up into his hairline. Brendon looks the coolest, Ryan thinks, but he has to – he’s the lead singer.

Spencer counts them off, and it’s as easy as it’s always been. No bottles being thrown at them, no one yelling _faggot_ , or _get off the fucking stage_ , just girls singing along at the barrier, and the crowd pushing behind them. Ryan looks side stage, and almost trips over a mic cord when he sees Mikey standing with Gerard and Pete. Mikey smiles, catching him looking, and Ryan has to stare down at his guitar.

He’s not going to fuck this up. He’s not going to fuck anything else up.

+

My Chem goes on at 5:45, and Ryan stands just offstage and watches. Brendon and Spencer have left to go take off their makeup, but Ryan hadn’t wanted to miss anything. He still has the birds on his face, but he doesn’t even care.

My Chem is as on as always – Gerard’s voice clear and strong, Frank and Ray fucking shredding it, Bob behind them keeping the beat. Mikey doesn’t look up once, concentrating hard on his bass.

The set goes by faster than anything Ryan remembers, and when Gerard stumbles offstage, Ryan has to take a step back so as not to be in the way. Mikey’s the last off, and Ryan almost doesn’t do anything. He almost lets Mikey pass by without acting.

“Mikey,” he says, voice louder than he means it to be. Mikey stops moving, and glances up at him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Mikey looks over his shoulder at Gerard, who’s still talking to Frank and Bob by the amps, side stage. “Sure,” he says, and Ryan feels the relief build in his chest.

They walk around behind the stage and end up sitting by the back fence, on the trampled grass.

Ryan doesn’t know how to start, but he makes himself talk, anyway. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t want to push you away, I just wasn’t sure –”

“I get it,” Mikey says, cutting him off. He’s looking down at his hands and not at Ryan, so Ryan’s not sure that he does.

“But I do,” Ryan says. “Want you. It’s worth it.” 

Mikey’s head comes up fast, and Ryan can see the way his eyes are wide behind the frames of his glasses. Ryan can’t help it; he leans forward and kisses Mikey on the mouth, one hand clutching at the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder. He misses a little, lips sliding off-center against Mikey’s at first. Mikey makes a sound that’s mostly surprise, and presses forward, opening his mouth against Ryan’s. Ryan lets his fingers curl against Mikey’s shoulder, and presses his tongue against Mikey’s lower lip.

Mikey’s hand touches the side of Ryan’s face, sliding from his hairline to his chin and then up into his hair. Mikey’s probably smearing his makeup everywhere, but Ryan doesn’t give a fuck. Mikey pulls away to pant wetly against Ryan’s cheekbone, hand still tugging at his hair. Ryan makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat; he really does have a thing about the hair pulling.

“You look so hot like this,” Mikey says, nipping at his jaw, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up,” Ryan says, and kisses him again, sloppy and warm, sliding his fingers up under the sleeve of Mikey’s t-shirt.

They’re both dirty, unwashed, and Ryan’s covered in smeared stage makeup, but he can’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.

+

Ryan wakes up alone in Mikey’s bunk on My Chem’s bus. The light trickling through the dirty windows indicates that it’s morning, and that he’s slept through the night. He’s shirtless but still wearing his jeans. There are red marks along his hips where the waistband dug into his skin as he slept. He remembers Mikey’s fingers pressing against his bare back, Mikey’s mouth on the side of his neck, and thinks it’s worth it. He rolls out of the bunk and wipes the sleep from his eyes, starting when his fingers come back blue and red. Then he remembers that he never bothered to take off his stage makeup, and shrugs, leaving to go find Mikey.

Mikey’s in the back lounge with Gerard, and hands him a half-full mug of coffee. Ryan takes a sip of the coffee, bitter and strong, before passing it back.

“Hi,” Mikey says, and grins. The expression still makes Ryan’s heart clench. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” Ryan says, grinning back, and sits next to him on the couch. “Good morning.”

“Keep it to yourself,” Gerard says, but he’s got his sketchbook open to a new page, and he can’t pretend that he’s not drawing them right now.

Mikey slides his fingers over the back of Ryan’s wrist, and, for that moment, Ryan doesn’t even care that they’re both leaving in a few hours, and driving in opposite directions.

+

“I have to go,” Ryan says, eventually. He couldn’t find his own shirt, so he’d stolen one of Mikey’s – it’s a little loose in the shoulders, but Ryan doesn’t mind. Spencer’s been texting him about getting on the road, and he knows that he has about half an hour before the threatening starts.

“Okay,” Mikey says, and stands. “I’ll walk you back.”

“We’ll see you soon, Ryan, don’t worry about it,” Gerard says, and hands Ryan the folded up drawing he was working on. “Look at it after you start driving.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Thanks.” He gets a hug from Gerard and a promise that he’ll tell the rest of the guys goodbye for them.

It only takes them four minutes to get to Panic’s van. Mikey’s hand brushes against Ryan’s the whole way there, but Ryan’s still not happy about leaving,

“Gerard’s right,” Mikey says, breaking the silence. “It’s not like we won’t ever see you again.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ryan catches Mikey’s wrist before he can think about it, thumb sliding just to the middle of Mikey’s palm. He’s looking at Mikey’s face, though, and his crooked smile, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Let’s get a move on!” Brendon yells out the passenger side window.

“Call me, or something,” Ryan says, and Mikey nods, wrapping his free hand around the back of Ryan’s head and kissing him.

It’s just about the best goodbye that Ryan could hope for.

+

The drive to Las Vegas will take them more than a day and a half, but they’ve got no plans at the moment besides more songwriting, so they can take their time. Ryan waits until they’ve been on the road for a few hours before he looks at the drawing Gerard made him.

It’s Mikey sitting next to him on the couch, the two of them looking at each other, Ryan’s hair sticking up every which way, the smeared makeup on his face. Mikey’s looking at him with a soft expression that Ryan’s never noticed before. Ryan stares at it for a few minutes before folding it carefully back up, and sticking it in his songwriting notebook.

An hour later he gets a text from Mikey. It’s a picture of Ryan’s shirt, which he’d apparently left on the floor, and a note saying, _at least i have something to remember u by_.

_ill see u soon_ , Ryan texts back. _save it 4 me_.


End file.
